


Shrouds of Smoke

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farming, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Animal Slaughter, Drug Use, F/F, Femlock, Femslash, Gen, Quarantine, Self-Harm, epidemic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-05 16:03:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 24,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5381438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cumbria, 2001. As foot and mouth disease ravages the UK countryside, it's all Sherlock Holmes can do not to lose her grip on logic and sanity in an atmosphere of dread. Quarantined to a dairy farm with Irene Adler with the countryside going up in flames around them, hope is such a very tenuous thing.</p><p>A tale of love, loss and healing in the midst of a world where it seems all is lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 20 February 2001

On a fine Cumbrian morning, it starts with a violin.

And that is how Sherlock will always remember the beginning of it all – criticising a violin performance playing on a cd in the milking parlour, instead of listening to the news. Ignoring Mycroft’s persistent phone calls for a day and a half instead of answering them. (She would have been prepared if she'd answered even once, would have adjusted to the possibility). Later, in the house with her mould analysis. The phone slipping from her fingers when Irene convinces her to turn on her television and she finally sees it all for herself.

"The remaining pigs in the abattoir will be slaughtered and disposed of while the Ministry traces the origin of the infected animals." Well, they would have been slaughtered anyway so not too much of a tragedy but the slaughter won't end there.

The television shows old footage of funeral pyres, the flames stretching towards the sky and going on and on in a line that seems never ending. Through the flames Sherlock can see the stiff legs of the carcasses. In 1967 there were 430,000 animals slaughtered, mostly in Shropshire. In 1981, on the Isle of Wight, there was between 5-600 slaughtered. Sherlock's uncle, Andrew Vernet, lost his herd in that one. Where will this new outbreak fall? Somewhere between the last two? Lower? Higher?

The straight-faced newscaster with a city background talks about the thousands slaughtered before, and the magnitude of it doesn't seem to dawn on her. But Sherlock is just about old enough to remember ’81, and hearing about her uncle’s place. His cows getting shot for the blisters that erupted on their tongues and between their toes. The memories are vague in her mind, blurred by time and distance and so many other things. Still, vague though they may be, they are strong enough that she turns off the news, and cuts off Irene mid-sentence before grasping her violin and bow and walking outside to the cow shed.

It won’t come here, she tells herself, straddling the low wall and putting bow to strings, commencing to play. Logically, there is no need to worry, merely to keep a weather eye on things and secure the boundary.

The cows don’t look up from feeding through the barrier, used to such performances. Essex and the pig abattoir is a long way away from here. They’ll contain it and it will pass like an inconvenience. All will be well.

At least, she tries to convince herself it will.

* * *

 

_To say that S- has been unnerved by this outbreak would be an understatement._

Irene sighs into her diary. Hardly twelve hours since she called Sherlock to be sure she'd heard the news, and the life they've known together has been upheaved. Irene got back to the farm about six hours ago, to find that everything has changed. Suddenly, the roadway is covered in a thick bed of straw, and she's fairly certain that she caught a whiff of disinfectant as she drove up, even with the car windows closed.

_I've never known her to be so gripped by paranoia._

Paranoia? That hardly begins to describe it. Foot and mouth is hundreds of miles away in Essex yet here in Cumbria Sherlock has declared the farm a quarantine zone. Nobody gets in, and nobody gets out. Irene had to ring the post man to tell him to leave any letters at the end of the roadway. And poor Mrs. Hudson has been commissioned to do their grocery shopping.

And it's only the first day!

_I think I'm going to mad within this house._

* * *

 

There's no news on. Why is there no news on? Something of this magnitude, surely there should be one somewhere. Do people not realise what is going to happen? Are they so dense that they can't see what this means?

"Stop abusing  the television and come to bed." Irene is in the doorway, clearly just finished typing her diary, fingers showing the recent keyboard use. "Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock gestures towards the television where Gene Wilder - and how does she know that name? - looks flustered. "Why is there no news on?"

"Probably because it's half-past twelve at night and all of the newscasters are in bed."

"There should be something about it."

"It's an isolated case, Sherlock. It'll blow over in a few days. You're just panicking yourself for no reason."

Panicking? Well. "I am not panicking. Panic is irrational when the chance of foot and mouth crossing the country to here is so hypothetical." There.

Irene snorts disbelievingly. "The disinfectant-soaked straw on the roadway and the big Keep Out sign would beg to differ."

"I'm simply taking the necessary precautions. It is wise to be prepared."

Irene sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Please. Come to bed.  There'll be plenty of news on in the morning for you to keep up to date. And if you're that concerned you could call Mycroft."

"And let him know that I'm concerned? Not happening."

"He's your brother. I strongly suspect he already knows."


	2. 27 February 2001

_S- has slipped into battle mode. She used to do this coming up to exams – work out the contingency plans for each likely question that could come up and her answers to them. Now, there isn’t much of a contingency plan that she can come up with. We either get it or we don’t. There's nothing we can do one way or the other except work out where to put the extra calves we’ll end up with from not being able to sell. Everything we can do to keep it out we’ve already done. She’s flying through boxes of cigarettes almost like the way her Uncle F- used to chew his cigars. And me? Well, what can I do? If I leave I run the risk of bringing it back, though admittedly I could earn some money to help get us through this. And staying means resigning myself to the tension and stagnating boredom. S- is more than capable of keeping on top of the work, especially now that she’s abandoned her experiments in favour of staying outside with her cows and her violin._

_And she needs me to stay. Who else would remind her to eat? Or get her to go to bed and give her mind a rest? At any time she runs the risk of going mad in this big house alone, but now with so much worry I suspect it would destroy her._

_The longer this goes on, the more difficult she becomes. And then she denies being worried. It is, after all, not in her nature to worry over hypotheticals. But this is different, and unlike anything she's faced before._

_As I type this, she’s sitting in the calf shed composing. She’s been checking all of the stock at least twice a day, though there has been no case yet here in Cumbria. It helps to take her mind off things and gives her something to do. This tends to be a quiet time of year as it is, there still being too little grass to turn the cows or youngstock out to grass. We’re still usually waiting for spring, and I tend to be off somewhere researching and writing to pass the time. When we will get back to such normalcy we can only wait and see. It seems frivolous now to head off and report on the latest fashion trends or music or ponder on current popular tropes in film. I find I can’t even think of such things._

_S-‘s brother M- has sent us a box of supplies. It’s mostly tea and dried packets of noodles and some bags of pasta and tins of beans. He doesn’t seem to much care about nutrition, but Mrs. H- is keeping us supplied with vegetables so scurvy doesn’t seem imminent. And anyway, it’s the thought that counts, though I never thought I’d ever be grateful to see a box arrive from him._

_Thirteen cases have been confirmed so far, from Devon to Northumberland and it’s only been six days. Doubtless by midnight there’ll be several more. S- says it’s only a matter of time before it hits Cumbria, but I find myself hoping that she’s wrong. She’d say that hope is only for fools, but at least it’s something. It’s more than sitting back and resigning myself to the inevitable, and as long as I have hope then maybe things won’t go completely to the wall. I can at least keep some sanity, and retain the façade of being calm. S- is doing enough panicking for the both of us, though she denies that she’s panicking and instead insists that she’s maintaining “a healthy interest” in the spread of the disease. I swear, the amount of newspapers she’s shredded between her fingers in the desperate search for news would comfortably bed a kennel of dogs. The television controls have never looked so worn from all of her switching between stations. M- would keep her perfectly up-to-date – having a direct line to MAFF – but it’s not as if she’d ask him, or answer his phone-calls. He’s called me several times to remind me to keep an eye on her and be sure that she doesn’t do anything rash. Though where he expects her to get her hands on heroin out here I can’t be sure._

_So for now, we wait. What more can we do?_

Irene hits post and sits back from her desk, sighing. It’s such a relief to put her thoughts out in the open like this, almost as if she’s cleansing herself of them. It’s not as if she can say these things out loud to Sherlock – talk of emotion and feelings rolls off her at the best of times. It would do no good for Irene to admit that she’s worrying. Such admittance never helped before, so why should now be any different?

Out in the sitting room, Irene hears the starting theme of the evening news, and the familiar slap of a newspaper being thrown down. She doesn't know when Sherlock came in, but it doesn't matter. Better for Irene to sit here anyway until the news is over. She can hear enough filtering through the walls.

Online diaries truly are a marvellous invention.


	3. 01 March 2001

For all of Sherlock’s listening to the radio and flittering through newspapers, it’s Irene who hears the news first. She’s in the kitchen, listening to Radio Cumbria as she disinfects the cupboards after the latest mould experiments when the first word comes in.

“The first Cumbrian case of foot and mouth disease has been confirmed at Smalmstoon, near Langtoon,” the voice crackles over the radio, and Irene lurches, almost falling off the stool she’s standing on to reach the high cabinets. She steadies herself and steps down as the radio announcer continues on, “little is known at this time about how the disease reached Cumbria, though an investigation has been launched. Farmers are urged to monitor their livestock for signs of ill health and, if concerned, to contact their District Veterinary Manager as soon as possible. Once again, the symptoms to watch for are . . .”

Irene turns off the radio and takes a deep breath, her heart pounding through her chest, eyes burning. So it has come here. Well, it was bound to happen. They knew it was only a matter of time, so why does it feel so much like a death sentence? Smalmstown and Longtown are a long way away from Blackstoke, in spite of sharing a county. Just because it’s up there doesn’t mean it’s going to come down here. Everything will be fine. It’ll be fine.

But what will Sherlock say, to hear that her fears have been realised? Clearly she hasn’t heard yet, when she hasn’t rushed into the house and made straight for the television. For all of her worry and rapid reaction, she’s held the belief that if it stayed out of Cumbria, then they would be safe, for how would the disease touch them? But now, now it’s breached the outer defences, broken through the infantrymen so to speak. All they can do is wait and hope the barricades hold.

And Christ, but when did Irene become so poetic? It must be the result of being cooped up in here so long with Sherlock almost literally tearing her hair out. Every scrap of news has been analysed and turned over, whether it came from the television, the radio, the newspaper, the Ministry’s own website, or Mycroft, whom Sherlock is finally talking to now that the crisis levels have increased. She’s been chain smoking instead of eating, assembling charts to plot the spread of the disease instead of sleeping. The chemistry equipment on the table has been abandoned in favour of screeches from an untuned violin. An excellent opportunity for epidemiological research, she declared it, though epidemiology has never been something she's cared about.

Still, they should be safe. Sherlock reacted to the initial news of the outbreak so quickly that the odds of anything having gotten into the farm are incredibly slim. Their neighbours were surely laughing at them, though they didn’t let any sign of it show, reacting with their own concern. Marianne Wilcox, married to Jim across the river, has been an excellent source of news.

“As soon as word got out,” she said, in one hushed phonecall, “Jim spent a good day and a half drawin’ home some ah last year’s lambs o’er near Langtoon. He took t’market the rest of them. Best t’have a clearance, he said, before restrictions come in. Ah course, t’price was through t’floor ‘cause e’erbody else thought t’same. Just as well, though. Couldn’t do it now.”

Privately, Irene thought as she listened to the woman carry on, it may have been wiser just to sell everything kept near Longtown. It wouldn’t surprise her if the market proved a point of dissemination, and Mycroft has half-suggested that it may have been. All of those sheep, kept in one place, coming from God knows where and going God knows where else. Thousands and thousands of animals in close confines. A perfect breeding ground. Well, it’s logical to be wary of the place, and any animal living near it.

Now that foot and mouth has reached Cumbria – and near Longtown, in fact! – the memory of that chat with Marianne pricks the back of Irene’s mind, churning her stomach. Well, they expected this to happen, and if it stays in the vicinity of Longtown then they should be fine.

(She refuses to think of what could happen, if Jim Wilcox brought it home with him. Such thoughts have no place in a civilised kitchen.)

* * *

In the end, Irene doesn’t have to break the news to Sherlock. She stays out of the house until after the evening milking, then steps in to get her violin before going out again. Irene finds her in the calving shed, sitting on a round bale of straw, eyes closed, playing an aching melody. Irene can feel the sweet sadness bleeding through, the melancholy that she’s tried so hard to clamp down on. Here it is, laid out plain as day, the words she cannot speak.

It’s a sharp stab in Irene’s heart. The last time Sherlock kept her words so much to herself was in the wake of her uncle’s death. The violin was her voice then too in long evenings and late nights. Her fingers still light on the bow, and what really has changed bar the crisis?

Careful not to disturb Sherlock, Irene throws the flask of tea she’s brought onto the top of the bale and pulls herself up after it. Sherlock  cracks an eye open and smiles slightly, continuing to play. The far side of the gate, a big white cow – Tungsten – is readying herself to calf. The way she stands nosing at the straw, tail outstretched and back arched makes Irene think it’ll be several hours yet. No matter. Sherlock is going to wait it out. Tungsten won’t be the first to calf to violin playing, and she won’t be the last either.

The music stops, and Sherlock sighs, placing the violin and bow down on the sheet over the straw at her side.

“An hour will bring her most of the way,” she whispers, voice hoarse and cracked with disuse and too many cigarettes. “The tips of the feet went back in just before you arrived.” She accepts the plastic mug of tea that Irene hands her without question, sipping at it though the steam shows that it must be scalding still.

Tungsten settles into the straw, kneeling on her front legs and lowering herself, grunting as she rocks into a sitting position before lying over onto her side.

“So what do you plan to name this one?” The question is usual, anticipated, and yes, there the tips of the feet are, protruding from the cow, yellow and almost blending into the straw.

Sherlock does not call her on the repetition from so many other calvings, instead swallows, jaw tight. “I’m not certain if there’s much point anymore.”


	4. 02 March 2001

_The first case in Cumbria was confirmed yesterday. Everyone must have heard by now. It was only a matter of time before it arrived here. Now that it has, we can only hope that it stays a small outbreak. I pray  - though prayer isn’t something I usually do – for those who are going to lose their animals. Who can explain what they must be going through? With us, well, we carry on. What else can we do? We had a calf born last night. A Holstein heifer, fairly white. S- was quite reluctant to name her in the present climate,but in the end settled on Artemis. It was a convention of her uncle’s to name calves after astronomical features and mythology, and sometimes fictional characters too. I look forward to the day in three years’ time when we’ll trying to name Artemis’ first born._

* * *

 

How soon the monitoring and checking becomes a habit! She does it unconsciously, eye passing over mouths and feet as she moves the cows up the yard, fingers feeling for even the slightest irregularity in each cow's teats as she wipes them before slipping the cluster on. All is the same, all is normal. Blinded, she would know each cow by the skin beneath her fingers.

At once, the knowledge that all is well is both a relief and a tightening of the noose. She has to check them again tonight and in the morning and tomorrow night and each time she checks them brings her closer to the time when she'll find something. It is not a question of if, but when, as far as she can tell. Yes the neighbours might be all right for now, but that doesn't mean that they will stay all right, not when each time she turns on the radio there's news of another farm condemned. They all thought that they would escape, and thought that this would pass with little fuss. Now look where they are. Ready for the slaughter.

Well, it makes no sense, but it might be better to expect the worst. Maybe then she and Irene can escape.

Which one of these old friends will be the cow to condemn them all? She doesn't know. She can't know and yet when her hands are on each one seeking out infirmities she can't help but wonder. Is it Sirius, named after a star by uncle Ford? Or Valjean, whose name came from an old French novel Ford read so many times the cover fell off? She remembers Valjean as a calf, just about twenty years ago. Sherlock was only eight at the time, and Ford brought her out to help with the delivery. The calving remains an impression of long, slim white legs and a delicate nose. Valjean grew into a prize-winner and brought home many rosettes and still every year she calves regular as clockwork. An old dear, Irene calls her. There's a photo of her and Ford from fifteen years ago sitting inside on the mantel piece, and hanging around Valjean's neck is a sash proclaiming her Supreme Champion.

No. It won't be Valjean that brings the Ministry down on their heads. Another one, maybe, but not her.

* * *

 

The milking ended, Sherlock walks out across the slatted tank. There aren't too many left to calf - at least not in the immediate future, and so the tank is largely quiet. Here, too, all is well. No dribbling, no lameness. Eyes bright and coats healthy. Paganini's udder is well full up now, so Sherlock rearranges the gates and lets her through to the calving shed, so recently vacated by Tungsten. She won't calve today, but better that she relax in the comfort of a deep straw bed than lying up in a cubicle. It's not a big job to bring a wheelbarrow full of silage through to her anyway.

Out here, in the normal routine of spring, it is easy to allow herself to forget that all is not well in Cumbria. The cows must be milked, the springers observed, the calves fed, and those things can never be allowed to go unattended. Surrounded by the content munch of silage and grunts of well-fed cattle there is a calm that Sherlock could never find in the city. And, she suspects, a hand resting lightly on Cosette's shoulder, Ford felt much the same too.

* * *

 

An hour passes before Sherlock makes her way back to the house. Noodling quietly in the back of her head are several strings that she might work into a violin piece, if she can find the right place to segue into them. So easy is she watching the flakes of snow drift to the ground she doesn't notice the house door open and Irene standing in it with a blanched face until she is up at it. Then the hand on her arm is so unexpected a jolt runs through her, snapping her back to her thoughts.

"Sherlock." Irene's voice is strained, concerned, almost as if there's been a death in family.

"Who is it?" The question rolls off Sherlock's tongue without her even pausing to consider it. And then, "Where is it?" It. The only term needed for this virus she can't bring herself to name. Naming it is to accept it and she cannot accept something that so violently shatters the peace of this land.

Irene's voice is hushed. "Joe Madox."


	5. 16 March 2001

It's been ten days since Joe Madox's cows were shot. The reporters prefer to say that so many cattle - and sheep and pigs - have been culled when they give the statistics for casualties at the end of the day, as if culled can take the bad look off things were as shot or slaughtered is merely being honest. Madox's carcasses have lain for ten days after being shot and the infection has not been found within the three miles from where they met their end to Sherlock's gate. Existing carcasses are less exciting to reporters than fresh ones.

The smell, however, has certainly been found within those three miles. When the wind changes and blows the stench right at the yard the whole place reeks of rotting flesh, sickly sweet and conjuring images of giant plants rotting in the undergrowth of a rainforest. It unsettles the cows and upsets Sherlock's stomach. Thankfully she and Irene are both made of stern stuff and so vomiting around the yard has not become a part of their daily lives.

Yes, ten days later and finally the pyre has been lit.

Standing atop the stack of hay bales, wind blowing in her face, Sherlock can not only see the pyre smoke above the trees but smell it too. Singed mushrooms and rotting cabbage intermingled with the heavy, cumbersome stench of too many semi-fruity perfumes sprayed all at once, the rubber of burning tyres a laughable undertone. It’s a burdensome smell, acrid and raw and there is no escaping it with the wind blowing this way.

Ten days since Joe Madox - a terribly reserved man - watched his soon-to-calf suckler cows crumple in front of him at the end of a captive bolt pistol. There is no way he can escape the smell, quarantined as he is to the farm, only his wife and eldest daughter for company, the younger children sent to live with their grandmother in the town as soon as the crisis became known. One is eight, the other ten, and both had to leave the farm wearing disposable white suits, proper clothes carried in sealed plastic bags for fear they bring the disease out with them. As if they were the biohazard.

It's no way for children to live, Irene remarked, almost idly, undoubtedly relieved that they don't have children to face such an ordeal, were the crisis to reach their doors.

God, Ford would be disgusted were he here.

But he's not here, the little voice in Sherlock's head reminds her, as it so often does, and that's what so much of the problem is.

Would he be afraid that it would develop in the herd? Or would he be certain that it wouldn't? Could it come in, were he here? Would he be more careful than Sherlock? Or would it get in anyway?

It's not in yet, she reminds herself, and it won't get in either.

She tightens her jaw and faces into the wind, feet steady on the bale of hay beneath her, the smoke burning her nose, and raises the violin to her shoulders. An elegy is in order, for what's happened and the storm that might yet come.

* * *

The darkness of the night presses heavy against Irene's eyes when she opens them. The bed is empty. She need not feel for Sherlock to know that. The absence of warm breaths against the back of her neck is confirmation enough. Sherlock hasn't been the same since they got word about Madox's cattle going down. It's almost as if she's become resigned to the inevitability of them, too, losing the lot. Any hope she's been clinging to dissipated with the news that it's come so close, and Irene must do the hoping now for both of them. Even the newspapers have taken less abuse.

Wherever she's gotten herself to now.

With a sigh, Irene rolls out of bed. No use lying in here when Sherlock's rambling around outside somewhere. It's best to track her down and make sure that she at least gets some sleep too.

Fumbling around in the dark Irene manages to dress and stumble downstairs. The creaking old house is definitely Sherlock-less - no glow of an open fire, an office in darkness, no violin music. Reaching the door to the yard, Irene pulls on a pair of boots and lifts a coat off the hanger on the wall. It's bloody cold out after all.

She creeps out quietly, closing the door as softly as she can. Over towards Madox's place there's a soft glow to the sky and it isn't the oncoming dawn. Instead of dwelling on the meaning of that glow, Irene heads in the direction of the cubicle shed, their lights a beacon in the night. Well, there's nothing strange in that. Sherlock's long been in the habit of leaving the lights on so the cows can see their way around. Irene doesn't know if it makes a difference to them or not.

There is no resident in the calving shed tonight, so there's no point checking there for her errant lover. She peeps in at the calves in their various pens, and all are curled up asleep, bellies still full with milk after the evening feed. The cubicle sheds, too, are quiet, most cows lying up chewing their cud though a few still lurk around the feed barrier, taking advantage of the quiet to eat at their leisure. She's just beginning to worry about Sherlock, in fact, when old Valjean catches her attention.

The cow is lying up, peaceful as all of the rest, her head curled in to face to her belly, but instead of sleeping she's licking something. Walking quietly so as not to frighten her or any of the others, Irene slips around and sure enough there is Sherlock, tucked in against Valjean, head tipped back as if in sleep, legs curled up under her. She's wrapped up warm anyway, and for a moment Irene wishes she'd brought out her camera. Then Sherlock stirs, one eye cracking open and her lips twitching into a slight smile. It's the most relaxed Irene's seen her in the weeks since their confinement to the farm started.

"Why don't you join us?" The words are whispered, hoarse, and Sherlock's smile is gentle now. Irene's heart swells at the sight of it.

"I rather think I will," she whispers back and settles down, Sherlock scooting over to give her room so she doesn't accidentally sit on the cow's udder. Without a word Sherlock puts an arm around her shoulders and kisses her, lips soft and chapped against Irene's own. But such a thing doesn't matter. Not tonight.


	6. 19 March 2001

"How're you holding up?" Mrs. Hudson is worried. It's clear in her eyes, and Irene remembers that she used to take it upon herself to feed Sherlock's uncle Ford when he would forget to eat. Looking after other people is something that she does well, and worrying is a natural part of that.

"As well as we can without becoming too paranoid," Irene attempts a smile, but her heart isn't really in it. "I mean, this isn't just going to blow over now. It might have a month ago, but touch wood it won't hang around here too long. At least the smoke from Joe Madox's place is blowing away from us this time." And she taps her knuckles off the wooden post one of Sherlock's Keep Out signs is tied to.

"And Sherlock? I got two boxes of cigarettes for her. I hope it does her a few days. She shouldn't be smoking so much. It's terribly bad for her."

"I know but try telling that to her." Truth be told, two boxes might have a hard time doing her past tomorrow morning, especially if she doesn't sleep tonight. "Ford would be eating his cigars if he were here."

Mrs. Hudson chuckles. "It was a filthy habit of his. Anyway, dear, you just let me know if you need anything extra tomorrow. Look after yourself, and get Sherlock to get some rest, all right? Poor girl can't keep running herself ragged."

"I'll do my best, Mrs. Hudson." They hug across the gate and Mrs. Hudson gets back into her car. Irene waves after her and collects the box of groceries. It's not too heavy but it is bulky - being stacked high with different newspapers - and she carries it up to the house without too much difficulty. Hardly has she deposited it on the kitchen table when the phone rings. Mrs. Holmes, Sherlock's mother. Right on schedule.

"Hello, Margaret," Irene answers, sitting down at the table. "How are you today?"

The line is crackly, but not as bad as it could be. "I'm well, Irene dear, and William sends his regards. How is everything up there with you?" Irene can just imagine her lounging back in her armchair, and William sitting in his own chair next to her, reading the paper and pretending not to be listening. Such a relaxed man, Mister Holmes. More than makes up for his wife's worrying, and she could rival Mrs. Hudson at times.

"We're holding up well. We're luckier today than we were yesterday, in fact. The smoke from our neighbour, Joe Madox's pyre is blowing away from us so we get some fresh air for a bit."

"And the stock are all keeping well?"

"No sign of anything untoward yet. Sherlock's out there now checking up on them. I swear, she finished milking a good hour ago and no sign of her yet. I'd go looking for her, but these checks are taking longer and longer every day and it's best to let her come in when she's ready to. Otherwise I mightn't get a good word out of her for the rest of the day."

"If she's still good and awkward then she's all right." There's a fond chuckle in her voice that makes Irene smile.

"That's what I said."

"And how's Martha keeping?"

"Oh well. She's just gone, actually, after making her delivery. I think she's dropping stuff for the Wilcox's now."

"She'd feed a nation, that woman. Still, it's never any harm to have her on your side. You wouldn't know when you might need her."

"It's a pity most landlords and ladies aren't half as good."

"She was always more family than landlady, dear Martha. Terrible shame that you can't get anything out to those fields yet."

"I know. But the time will soon come when we can." The door opens behind Irene, and she turns around. Sherlock is standing there, face white and blank, almost dazed looking. Irene's stomach lurches and she hopes the nausea can't be detected down the phone line in London when she says, "I better go now, dear. Talk to you tomorrow." Her voice sounds half-strangled even to her ears and she quickly presses the red button to end the call.

Sherlock's eyes meet hers, wide and semi-bewildered. As if she's ready to run. "Call Lestrade," she whispers, and it's all that Irene needs to hear.

* * *

 

Having just come "clean" after visiting his last suspected foot and mouth case - later confirmed - District Veterinary Manager Greg Lestrade cannot say he's pleased to be called out to another farm. Who would be, in a time such as this? But for that farm to be that of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler sickens him right to the core. Before ascending to the role of DVM, when he was still an innocent ordinary veterinary surgeon, he attended to many cases on this farm. Of course, that was in the day of Sherrinford Holmes, but the new management doesn't make much difference. He knows both Sherlock and Irene well, Sherlock having a fondness for quizzing him about the more unusual cases he attended to in his time of practice.

Secretly, he hoped that those two would escape the scourge. If anyone could do it, it would be them. But the virus knows no discrimination, and so the Holmes-Adler premises is not the last outpost he has hoped it would be.

It was only a matter of time, but Christ, it's different when it's people he knows well. Mostly he's been dealing with people in other parts of Cumbria who were never clients of his before. Joe Madox was the first former client to ring in a suspect, and Anderson took that farm for confirmation. It would be too much to hope that Sherlock Holmes will be the last.

It is Sherlock herself who places the call. She is blunt as ever, her voice not betraying the myriad of emotions she must surely be feeling.

"We have it," she says simply. There is no need to ask what it is, for there can only be one answer. "A cow this morning dribbling and shuffling. By the time I finished milking there were five more. You may come out, but there isn't much need."

"I'm on my way," he says, and sets the phone down. Donovan, sitting at her makeshift desk crammed into his office looks up from her reports. She doesn't speak, but her face is resigned. "It might be a while before I'm back."

"I'll hold the fort," she says. "I'm dirty until tomorrow anyway."

Ordinarily, it's a good two hour's drive from Carlisle to Blackstoke. With roadblocks and disinfectant points that's stretched out to almost three these days. On this day, Greg Lestrade does it in an hour and a half.

* * *

 

Irene regards Lestrade carefully from the opposite side of the table. She could swear he has several fresh grey hairs compared to how he looked when they met up for drinks at Christmas. He's still wearing the white disposable coveralls he put on when he arrived at their gate, and he stares despondently into his tea. By right he should have left by now, the better to get his blood and tissue samples that he's after taking to Pirbright for analysis. He certainly tried to leave, only Irene insisted on his coming in for tea. She's glad now that she did. Better than sending back to that big lonely house to drink alone for the night.

"The tests might still show negative," he says, not looking up from his tea even when Irene pushes the plate of biscuits closer to him. "There are several possible differential diagnoses, with the most prominent one being necrotic stomatitis. That's so similar to foot and mouth, the Americans misdiagnosed foot and mouth as it in 1914 and it was only when they carried out blood tests they realised their mistake. It could well be that's what we have here."

Irene wonders how many times he's said that to someone in the last few weeks. And how many times that someone has been himself.

Instead of commenting, she instead asks, "How long will it be until we know for sure?"

He leans back in his chair. "A couple of days. And then Page Street has to confirm the result." He swallows. "I'm sorry."

Irene stretches across the table, and rests her hand on his. He doesn't flinch, and doesn't look at her. "It's not your fault, Greg. You have nothing to apologise for. You're just doing your job."

He smiles darkly. "Some job, when it condemns thousands to death for a curable disease."

* * *

 

For all of Lestrade’s talk of necrotic stomatitis and differential diagnoses, the certainty is there in the minds of everyone that this is really it. The dreaded plague has landed and the formality of the blood tests aside that’s all there is to it.

When the last of the cows had returned to the shed after milking, a couple of them just starting to drool, and darkness settled across Cumbria (except for the distant glow showing Joe Madox’s pyre) Irene and Sherlock walked in silence to the gate where they  met a Ministry official insistent on keeping “clean”. That official passed over a Form A and said “For all intents and purposes you have it until the blood tests prove otherwise. A valuer will be with you around lunchtime tomorrow. Neither of you are permitted to leave this premises without prior Ministry approval.” She stopped, and swallowed. “If you have any questions, please call the office in Carlisle. Otherwise, we hope to process your case as soon as possible.” She made as if to offer her hand, then seemed to remember that they’re “dirty” and that isn’t allowed. “I’m very sorry.”

That was two hours ago, and in that time Irene has called Mrs. Hudson and Marianne Wilcox and even Mycroft, and Sherlock has sat silent on the couch, staring into the fire. Her mother rang, and she ignored it, only glancing at the phone long enough to identify the caller. Irene handled that call too, covering for Sherlock by saying that she was readying certificates for the valuer. (“I’m so sorry, dear. I suspected as much when she pulled you away earlier. If there’s anything we can do just let us know. Are you all right for necessities? I can send a parcel up and Martha Hudson can collect it from the post office for you.” And on she goes, her kindness flooding through the phone line, though none of it is enough to ease the heaviness in Irene’s heart.)

Eventually, setting the phone down after Mrs. Holmes, Irene manages to make some tea and dim the lights in the room. Sherlock still doesn’t stir as Irene places a mug of tea – with a drop of whisky in it  - on the table next to her. Nor does she stir when Irene, too, sits on the couch, sipping at her own tea. Sherlock blinks slowly, and her eyes are dry, and not once does she speak or show any awareness of her surroundings. The form A reminding them that they now live on an infected premises is still clutched in her hand, crumpled between her fingers.

“Your mother sends her love,” Irene says softly, more to break the silence than anything else. “And Mycroft says there’s nothing to be done. If they’re down on the blood test, that’s it. They won’t implement an isolation policy, even if they have in the past.” She stops, any more words dying in her throat. Sherlock still doesn’t look at her or speak, but she reaches out with the hand not clutching the form and takes Irene’s hand, squeezing gently.

And that’s enough.

* * *

 

_Our fears have been realised. This morning during the milking, S- found a cow with foot and mouth symptoms. She was last out of the cubicles, and she was drooling all over the place. She could hardly walk for the blisters between her hooves. Well, S- knew right away what it was and the DVM was called. He’s taken samples in order to confirm it, so for now we’re living with the fact that more than likely we’re going to lose the lot._

_Unless the tests come back negative, but the odds of that are almost non-existent._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: When Donovan says she's dirty, it means that she's visited an infected farm too recently to attend a suspect case, for fear of spreading the disease to an uninfected farm. The nature of FMD is such that it can survive several days in the lungs and nasal passages of people who've come into contact with it. The recommended waiting period is approximately five days, and while this was imposed on vets in 2001, such was the pressure put on veterinary resources - especially in Cumbria - that the "dirty" period was reduced to three days, but still personnel were tightly stretched, and this became more evident as the spring went on with the implementation of the contiguous cull and the requirement for extra inspection of neighbouring farms.


	7. 20 March 2001

_We had the valuer here this morning and got on well with him. He gave us as much as he could and was very helpful, even when S- refused to let him bring the pedigree certs away. She insisted on keeping them, saying that she didn’t have much else left of her uncle. I was shocked to see such sentimentality, but the valuer thankfully relented._

_Still we wait for the test results. As of this morning’s milking, a good third of the milking herd had lesions. Some weren’t able to walk to the parlour, so S- left them behind. More could walk but couldn’t be milked thanks to the blisters on their teats. No matter though. Those affected have almost dried they’ve slackened so much in the milk. Our first casualty came this morning – a calf delivered two nights ago. His mother is in a bad way with her own blisters. S- is treating her and some of the other very bad ones with painkillers and anti-inflammatories. It’s not as if they or their milk can enter the food chain now and it’s better than leaving them to suffer. By the time we're allowed to re-stock, most of the medicines would be out of date anyway._

* * *

 

It's when the phone-call comes from Annette Vernet that everything starts to sink in for Sherlock. She's always been fond of Annette and never talked to her much, it being somewhat inconvenient to travel to and from the Isle of Wight on a regular basis, especially with a drove of cows to mind. Of course, if there is anyone going to somewhat understand it would be Annette. Having seen 1981 first-hand, she knows what it's like waiting for the slaughterman better than most.

"I'm so sorry, dear," she says as soon as Sherlock answers the phone. "I know sorry doesn't cut it but I'm sorry. Margaret rang a few minutes ago with the news so I thought I'd give you a call. I've been following the foot and mouth and hoping it wouldn't get to you and now it has and I'm so sorry." Sherlock has forgotten how much Annette tends to run on at the mouth when she gets started. Still, it's a relief not to have to say anything. "You know, Andrew never thought he could bring himself to start again but he did and you will as well. It won't be long until all of this seems like one awful nightmare."

Sherlock sets down the phone, and wishes she could believe her words. If she's going to lose all of this, then it's better that she never start again, never let herself come to love another cow the way she's loved these. She let the ball drop on her watch, let them get infected and now if she starts again something will happen to take the replacements off her too, and she doesn't think she could bear that. She messed up her chance, and doesn't deserve another.

And even if she did deserve another, it wouldn't matter. Those would not be her cows. They would have to learn the farm, learn her, and she would have to learn them and so she could never love them the same. It would not be until their daughters' time, even their granddaughters' time, before those cows became hers.

Yesterday morning she knew it was the end. The moment she noticed that Paganini hadn't left her cubicle she felt the check at her heart, because Paganini is always ready to leave. And then she saw the blisters and knew it had come at last.

By the time she'd finished the milking she was certain. Paganini may have been the first, but it wasn't long until Tungsten and Aragorn were second and third respectively, their teats raw and feet so sore they tried to walk on tip-toes, shuffling along with their heads down. On top of that then, the first casualty - a calf dead in his pen when she looked in on them this morning. She's heard it said that young stock often get myocardial blisters with foot and mouth, so that must be it. Still. At least he won't have to face death at the end of a vet's needle in a few days' time.

She shouldn't have cut off the phone so fast on Annette. She isn't usually one to feel guilty over rudeness, but this time it's different. Maybe it's because Irene is mellowing her, or maybe it's the result of the crisis. She picks the phone back up and dials the Isle of Wight.

"I'm sorry, Annette," she says, as soon as she hears the click of it being answered. "The connection went with the snow." The snow is only light, but Annette needn't know that.

* * *

 

"Where's my sister now?" Mycroft's voice is cold, but Irene can hear the worry seeping through. He is surprisingly reserved on the phone this evening, his voice ringing oddly hollow every time he pauses.

"She's milking as best she can." It's not a lie to save Sherlock from talking to her brother. This time she really is milking. Irene offered to help, but Sherlock merely shook her head and walked outside. Best to leave her alone if she wants to be alone. Milking a herd of cows condemned to death is exhausting enough without trying to put a brave face on, and she can’t just leave the cows that can be milked without it. It would only leave them stiff and sore, and it's not as if Sherlock feels up to dropping her masks yet either. Irene suspects that those masks are the only things keeping her going just now. "A lot of them can't take the cluster now, with the blisters, but most of those have just slackened off."

It's a pregnant silence down the phone and then, in a voice so quiet Irene suspects he's fighting the words, Mycroft says, "I'm worried about her."

"I know you are."

She hears him swallow. "You have to look after her, Irene. It's all right now when there's work to be done, but after the cull . . . It could be very easy then for her to be tempted."

It almost makes her smile. "There's no cocaine in Blackstoke, and I doubt if it can be got in Penrith too handy. Or heroin, at that."

"If there's anyone who could find it, I'm sure you'll agree it would be Sherlock."


	8. 21 March 2001

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Warning for reference to suicide.

On the second day after Lestrade's visit, it would be difficult to see the fate of the herd in Sherlock's demeanour. She is calm and efficient going about her work. The milking, the feeding, the shed cleaning. Rubbing ointment into blistered teats and injecting syringes of anti-inflammatories. Cleaning sores as carefully as she can, pulling out the occasional foetus aborted at two or three months thanks to the virus. The Ministry might be breathing down their necks, but that doesn't mean that the victims can't be comfortable beforehand.

Even stalwart Valjean is suffering now. Once-bright eyes dulled, her brilliance whipped away at the hands of illness. And when Sherlock sees the ropy dribble from her mouth, it's very nearly enough to make her crack. Irene sees, and takes the shotgun from its case to hide it somewhere where Sherlock can't find it.

It doesn't pay to be careless, not in these times. Not when there're whispers of a farmer in Wales cracking under the strain and hanging himself, and another in Devon who shot his shed full of sheep before the Ministry had time to issue the order, and then turned the gun on himself. How true the rumours are is for anyone to say.

It's well into the afternoon when the phone call comes from the Ministry headquarters in Carlisle. It is concise, and to the point. Yes, it is foot and mouth and yes, the slaughter team will arrive in the morning. Sherlock sets the phone down and takes her violin in hand.

The screeches of a bow roughly drawn across strings follow Irene out of the house, her camera hanging around her neck and her coat pockets filled with rolls of film.

_*_

* * *

 

_The test results are in, and what we’ve already known has been confirmed. It’s definitely Pan Asiatic O type foot and mouth disease. Now we wait for Page Street to sign off on the slaughter order, though Carlisle have insisted that it will begin in the morning. Then we wait for slaughter and wait for the carcasses to be disposed of. And wait for our lives to return to normal. It’s all waiting, of one kind or another. And when will it end?_

_We are not the only ones waiting. There are cattle and sheep and pigs lying dead for two and a half weeks according to the stories I’ve heard. Thankfully JM down the road had his disposed of after ten days. The smell was overpowering while it lasted, and sometimes the wind blows the pyre smoke towards us. It’s bloody sickening to be honest. I try to forget that that’ll be us before long, but I can’t._


	9. 22 March 2001

Captain Joanne Watson, a veteran of Kosovo, expected to find a man on her first farm. Perhaps it is a stereotype bred into her or the result of too many episodes of Emmerdale , but it seems that there is little of her expectations that she got right.

Granted, none of the paperwork she's been issued with makes reference to Sherlock Holmes being a woman. It has her name and address and the number of animals she has and her case number and all pertinent, relevant information. But to discover that Holmes is a woman. Well, Joanne is taken aback to say the least.

It's not even Holmes that she meets upon first arriving at the farm - it's a Miss Irene Adler. Miss Adler is, at a guess, in her late twenties. Her hair is held back with clips and tumbles in a black wave past her shoulders.

"Sherlock's in the parlour," she says, after introducing herself as Holmes' good friend. "The milking should soon be finished. You can come in for tea or head over there. It's up to you."

Miss Adler, it would seem, is the woman of the house. Though Joanne must admit some surprise that she is not dealing with a married couple. Another expectation shattered.

"With all due respect, ma'am, I think I'd better head over there. Thank you for your offer." So that's what she does. In her disposable white overalls and her rubber boots with her clipboard in hand she must have cut a fine figure as she walked across the yard to where she heard the buzz of the milking machine emanating from. She sees a row of cows, all black and white, lined up on each side. The way they're standing means she can only see the heads of the lead two cows, and one of those is dribbling, eyes dull in her black face and the white snip on her nose crusty. A wall stands facing Joanne separating the two rows and a gap with stairs going down. She walks to this gap and catches sight of a woman in a green rubber apron, her hair scraped back in a black ponytail. The woman doesn't see Joanne for a long minute, but when she turns around there's an unmistakable tension in her clenched jaw.

She marches the length of the parlour and stands on the bottom of the three steps leading into the pit, which is enough to put her on a level with Joanne.

"And you are?" she asks, voice almost drowned out by the humming of the machine, one black eyebrow arched over her grey eyes.

"Captain Joanne Watson. I'm here to -"

"Yes I know why you're here. I see they've finally called in the army. Should've done that weeks ago." Her clipped accent is not Cumbrian. In fact, it sounds London and betrays years of higher education though she could only be Miss Adler's age.

"Could you tell me where to find Sherlock Holmes? I was told he was in the parlour."

The woman purses her lips, though they twitch with the flicker of a smile. "You're looking at her. Now, if you'll excuse me, Captain. I have to let out this row of cows. You'd better stand back by the door." And thus is Joanne's introduction to the remarkable Miss Holmes.

* * *

After, when the last of the cows have hobbled dribbling from the parlour and Miss Holmes has turned off the machine, Joanne gets to ask what are deemed the important questions on the clipboard.

"I'm sorry that I need to ask you, Miss Holmes, but how do you think your herd got infected?" There. Best to be quick about it.

Holmes looks up from washing her arms, the yellow hose gripped between her knees, and frowns. "There are a multitude of possibilities, Captain, some of which I give more credence to than others. Though of course I know the ones you'll put down on your sheet." She straightens up and twists around, shutting off the water. Then she pulls a length of paper towel from the container on the wall. "The most obvious one is that Irene and I weren't careful enough. That we didn't take enough precautions. I've only left here once since the news broke, and that was the same day. I went up to Penrith and bought a month's supply of medicines and spray paint and disinfectant." A sad look fleets across her face, gone in an instant. "Well, we got a month." She sighs and turns away from Joanne. "Irene, by the way, returned home from London a handful of hours after hearing the news, and she hasn't left since. So there goes possibility one." She turns around, looking at a point over Joanne's shoulder. Putting up three fingers, she drops one. "Possibility two, then, is that a visitor brought it in. In the last month all visitors have stopped at the gate and stayed off the farm with the exception of Gerry Ford, the milk man. He came about thirteen times and I disinfected his lorry both before his entering the lane and upon his leaving it. He never got out of the cab. That'll be the one you put down, considering it the most realistic." She drops a second finger. "Finally, then, we have to take other cases into consideration." And now her eyes seem to bore into Joanne's. "Joe Madox, just down the road. He had several cows with symptoms, so they culled him out and his herd lay dead for ten days before they started the pyre. Now, in those ten days there were foxes and birds and who knows what else travelling all across the land drawn by his carcasses. And the pyre only smouldered. It's still smouldering now, and if it's smouldering then it's not reaching a high enough temperature to kill the virus, thus allowing it to become airborne. Of course the Ministry is contributing to the spread by not disposing of animals fast enough. It's all very well and good to shoot them, but if the carcasses are there it can still spread. They say the lactic acid produced in a carcass is sufficient to kill the virus, but if it is then how can it be imported in meat as they say it has been?"

Joanne feels as if she's the one being questioned and under the weight of Holmes' now unrelenting gaze there is little that she can do about it.

Holmes nods, gaze hard as flint before she turns away. "Now, Captain. If you don't mind I would like to bed down the silage clamp before that team of . . . shooters arrive."

* * *

Joanne and Miss Adler both help to bed down the silage clamp, as Holmes referred to it. It is in a shed, the roof surprisingly high to allow - according to Miss Adler - a loader to climb onto the mound of grass and press it down. There are still the vestiges of silage in the corners, and a pile of plastic wrap which Holmes pulls out with her hands and leaves in a heap in the yard.

It is soon after that that a vet and three slaughtermen arrive, all wearing the same type of disposable suit as Joanne herself only in blue. "It's less likely t'spook t'cattle," one of the slaughtermen remarks, checking over his bolt pistol. "And we're short on white ones."

The vet has bottles of sedative and the cows are lined up in the chute for it to be administered before they're released into the clamp. Both Holmes and Adler are subdued though they are gentle with the cows, not rushing them though many are slow moving with the sores on their feet. The heifers and younger stock follow them, before the slaughter team shuts themselves into the clamp with Holmes and the cows.

"She insisted on watching it," Adler says softly, a shot punctuating the end of her sentence. "She says it's the last service she can do for them." Her voice cracks and she turns away from Joanne, swiping a hand over her eyes. "I'd prefer if she didn't but," she shrugs, "who am I to argue with her now? Not even God could." She composes herself and turns back around, giving a Joanne a watery smile.

Joanne, for her part, is struck by the care which both Holmes and Adler have shown their stock in the time she's been here. (For the cows do belong to both of them, really, even if only one of them has her name on the paperwork.) Both were gentle, remarkably careful, murmuring words of reassurance as they guided each cow into the chute for the injection. Holmes, strong-willed hard-eyed Holmes, paused at one cow who must at one time have been black but with age has gone grey and patted her on the neck, seeming to slip into thought for a moment before nudging her up the chute after five others, jaw clenched tighter than ever.

Feeling it better to talk about something other than the matter at hand, even with the bolt shots cutting into their words, Joanne asks, "So how long have you two had this place?"

Adler presses her knuckles to her forehead, kneading the skin as a calf bawls from the other shed. "It's Sherlock's really," she says. "It used to be her uncle's, then when he died it fell to her. That was two and a half years ago, but she lived with him before that and I - well, I tagged along. Would you," she swallows, "would you like some tea, Captain?"

It is against Joanne's better judgement to go into the house and have tea with Miss Adler, but it is against her orders to witness the slaughter itself - it being felt by the powers that be that witnessing it might not be wise for a veteran like her - and she would prefer to be doing something, even if that only amounts to comforting the poor woman who seems beside herself with worry for her - friend? lover? - for Holmes. So go in for tea she does, and manages to keep the conversation away from the whole topic of foot and mouth. Even talking about Kosovo is better than talking about something that will only make Miss Adler feel worse. And little by little Adler is induced to open up about herself and about Holmes.

It seems that she is a journalist by trade, (freelance) and that she and Holmes met in university. Which was odd, she says, because the English department was a long way from the chemistry one and there wasn't much mixing of specialities. Apparently theirs was an on and off relationship for a long time - and, yes, a romantic one. Much and all that Joanne is surprised to find a pair of women on her first farm, she's even more surprised to discover them to be lesbians. She voices this surprise, and that elicits a chuckle from Adler. "Ford, Sherlock's uncle," she says, "was surprised too, but he came around to it."

Even here the shots can be heard, albeit muffled. Adler jumps slightly at each one, her shoulders shaking, but not once does she let it stop her talking or overwhelm her. She offers tea and anecdotes and Joanne hopes that she's helping just by being here.

Eventually they head back outside, to help gather the calves to meet their end.

Watching the vet administer the euthanasia to the first calf, Joanne doubts she'll be able to sleep this night. There's something unnatural about helping to take away a life that had - in Holmes' words - fifteen good years ahead of it, at the very least. Especially when that life looks at out from big trusting eyes. Holmes reaches out and strokes her fingers gently over the calf's neck as she lays in the straw, those trusting eyes flickering for a moment before stilling. The vet takes his stethoscope and checks for a heartbeat, then stands up and merely says, "The next one, then."

* * *

_So that’s it. It’s over. The liaison officer from the army, a lovely woman named Captain W-, arrived this morning as S- was finishing the milking. She had paperwork to put together, and helped S- and I to prepare the empty silage clamp. It’s in a shed, as the old type were designed. Our newer one outside is still half-full, and that silage must be burned now too._

_We bedded the clamp, and then the slaughter team arrived, with a vet. They sedated the milking cows and dry cows and replacements all the way from two and a half years back to six months. After that, well, you can surmise for yourself. I didn’t watch the slaughter but S- did, sort of as a last service. Now the place is silent. It’s usually quiet at this time of the evening, but you’d know the cows were there. This isn’t quiet, it’s silence. And the very silence is empty._

* * *

Neither of them sleep that night, and frankly Sherlock isn't surprised. Every time she closes her eyes she sees Valjean crumple to the ground, legs giving out from under her as the bolt crashes through her skull. Or it's Sirius she sees, or even Aragorn. All of those old friends left lying in their own blood in the old silage clamp. She walks in amongst them, eyes imprinting each one and where she lies fallen on her memory forever. Ford would do the same, and she owes them the honour of never forgetting.

She leans with her back against the end wall and takes them all in, wishing Irene would brave the sight and come out to hold her hand and chatter about inconsequential things, provide the distraction she is so good at. At the same time, she's grateful that Irene has stayed in the house. This is her cross to bear, and Irene need not take on the burden.

Her mind wanders from this shed of death to the Captain. Captain Watson who fought a war and was thrust into another one, this time with an invisible enemy. What brought her to a land such as this, and what must she think of the horrors she's just seen?

As soon as the thought creeps in she forces it away. What does Captain Watson matter now, when all around her her life's work lies dead?

The darkness is pressing, claustrophobic. The carcasses are shadows, unsettling in their stiffness. Her skin crawls, the dim light from the yard falling on a puddle of blood. It glistens and her heart pounds in her chest. Why is she out here? She was mad to come out! They're all beyond her help now. There is nothing she can do and it is illogical to stay here as if there is.

The night air is cold, each breath searing her lungs. Her legs are shaking. She doesn't remember running out here but she must have because the silage clamp and its lifeless occupants are behind her and there are only the stars above. Her eyes burn and she collapses to the concrete ground. She cannot cry. She lost the right to that when she couldn't protect her herd.


	10. 23 March 2001

Such is the urgency now with thousands of carcasses scattered across Cumbria that not a lump of coal nor a railway sleeper can be gotten to build a pyre. And nor can a trench be dug to just bury Holmes' cows in as is being done elsewhere because so many of them are over the age of five. There's a backlog of lorries out the gates of the rendering plants, and the incinerators big enough to take a full carcass are already full to bursting.

As Joanne steps into the Holmes and Adler yard for the second time, she swears it's enough to drive a woman to drink.

Efficiency is something that both the army and Joanne herself pride themselves on, but with such a shortage of supplies they are becoming well-acquainted with inefficiency.

She's already talked to a list of suppliers and all of them are sold out. Between acquiring timber of the right season and ensuring the availability of digger men, she never quite realised until now how much work goes into one funeral pyre. In truth, she's been up since half six and on the phone since seven trying to gather equipment and supplies. It's twelve o'clock now and she hates having to bring the news that the cows are going to lie in their silage clamp and the calves in their shed for another night until she can see what can be done.

And more than likely it will be more than one night at that.

Christ, her bad shoulder is stiff today. Must be the cold.

To make matters worse now, she can't get a phone signal to call the Brigadier and see if he's having any better luck than she is. She knows the odds are that he isn't but it does no harm to check just the same.

Miss Adler waves to her from the window of the house and Joanne waves back, heading towards the milking parlour in search of a signal. She knows there was one in there yesterday, she remembers seeing a bar of service on her mobile, and hopefully today will prove as good with it.

She's hardly stepped in when a voice interrupts her.

"You were wounded." It is not a question, and Joanne finds herself searching the parlour for the speaker.

It is Holmes, sitting in a meal bin, smoking. She does not look at Joanne, does not seem to be looking at anything other than the dirt ground into her jeans. Or perhaps it's the violin in her lap that she's watching so intently.

"Shot, yes," Joanne replies, sitting in the neighbouring bin, watching Holmes from the side of her eye. It is a nice enough parlour, she supposes, surveying the set-up though milking parlours are not a particular area of expertise of hers.

The steel still shines like new, and Joanne supposes that that's because it is new, or almost. Adler - Irene - said it's only six months old, the floor dyed red to brighten the place and below, in the pit, black because Holmes felt like it. The hopes that must have gone into building something like this, dreams shattered now and she is complicit in it. She organised it, oversaw it, and how can Holmes even sit next to her knowing that?

"Shoulder, was it?" Holmes' voice is toneless, slightly hoarse from smoking, the parlour floor under her littered with ash and butts.

"Yes."

"The left."

"You're guessing."

A huff of breath, almost a laugh, and from the side of her eye Joanne sees the quirk of a lip. "I never guess."

The arrogance of the statement provokes a smile from Joanne. "Yes you do."

"Am I right?"

"Yes."

"Then there." She takes a long drag and sighs the smoke out. "Kosovo, I believe."

"Miss Adler told you that."

"Probably removed you from active service for it. They noticed the tremor in your hand and worried it would interfere with your aim. Gave you a desk job instead, nice and safe. This is your first time back in the field. Must be so nice." The cutting edge in her voice is the same as Irene's. Who influenced who, or were they independent of each other?

"With all due respect, ma'am," and it's a struggle to maintain the politeness but she must because this woman is aching though she won't show it, "it's not what I trained for. Your cows were not the enemy soldiers I was taught to fight."

Her words lie thick in the air, and just as Joanne fears she may have said too much, Holmes chuckles and turns to face her, extending a hand.

"Please, Captain. Call me Sherlock."

Joanne accepts it and in spite of herself smiles. "All right then, Sherlock. And please, call me Joanne." She's not certain what prompts her to say that last bit, but she's glad that she does when a glow of warmth briefly flickers in Holmes'-Sherlock's eyes.

"Might I suggest, Joanne, the phone service is generally better standing on the other side of the parlour." With that, Sherlock removes her cigarette, grinds it out on the steel side of the bin, takes the violin in hand and stands, for a moment, before stalking outside, her head high and back stiff.

Joanne takes her advice and crosses to the other side of the parlour. She places her call to the Brigadier, who confirms that nothing more can be done here at present, and soon hears the gentle sweep of violin music winding into the parlour. She steps outside and there is Sherlock, standing atop a bale of hay, her hair blown back, playing into the wind.

Well, Joanne thinks, she's some woman for one woman.

* * *

The house is quiet with Sherlock outside, and Irene can't bear listening to the radio anymore. She tidies the sitting room and checks on the photographs that she spent the night developing instead of sleeping. There is a photo of each cow and heifer and calf that they had on that last night. Not that they'd ever forget them, but she feels better having them. A memorial to all that they've lost.

There are several photos, too, of Sherlock as she's been over these last few days. One of her on the bales with her violin on the day that Madox's pyre was lit. One of her asleep against Valjean, taken when Irene woke first the morning after they slept in the shed. One of her last night, the muck pusher in hand, cleaning the empty cubicle shed for the last time for who knows how long.

Now, though, Irene is not needed in the dark room. Nor is she needed in the yard. Anything that can be done out there has been done. It was only the slurry in the cubicle sheds that could be cleaned, and Sherlock did that last night in a fit of restlessness. It is better, she said, to clean it before it sets. Otherwise they'll be in here with shovels and spades trying to get it out.

_Sherlock's not the only one who's restless_ , Irene thinks, hoovering in behind a cupboard where it hasn't been hoovered in years. _We must look some pair of fools now, any excuse to keep at something. Normal people would be -_

The mobile in her pocket rings, cutting off her thoughts. She switches off the Hoover and fishes out the phone. Mrs. Hudson.

The woman is concerned. It's clear from the first breath she takes when Irene answers. "I'm sorry to disturb you, dear," she says, "but I couldn't get through to Sherlock and I thought you should know. I've just been down to the shop and the news is Jim Wilcox is going to lose his sheep. That nice Ministry vet, Lestrade, remember he used to practice around here? He was out there this morning. And I was just thinking, they probably won't," and here she pauses, choosing her words because Mrs. Hudson is nothing if not careful, "dispose of your and Sherlock's cows until they have his sheep as well."

And Irene, try as she may and knowing that there's probably a hundred reasons for how it could have happened, can't stop the thought from crossing her mind that Jim Wilcox brought in the foot and mouth the day he brought his sheep home from Longtown.

* * *

_There’s nothing happening, and all is still. Captain W- is having trouble gathering what she needs for the pyre, especially now that it’s not just our cows but JW’s sheep from across the river as well. S- is at a loss of what to do. She can’t clean out the sheds until all of the carcasses are gone, or they’ll make her start all over. Her experiments can’t distract her, and the talk of foot and mouth is driving her mad. She’s walked through the carcasses (and how it hurts to think of those cows we bred and reared and loved as carcasses awaiting the pyre) until she can’t bear it any more. She stands out on the hay bales in the yard and plays her violin until her fingers freeze up with the cold wind, then she comes in and holes up in her chair watching her uncle’s videos of_ All Creatures Great and Small _. It’s her only escape now, and it’s not much of an escape for either of us._


	11. 24 March 2001

It's seven in the morning and halfway to brightness when the knock on the door interrupts Sherlock's thoughts. She sets down the violin, and stands, stretching out her back. She doesn't know how long she's been sitting, but it's a while judging by how low the fire has simmered. The knock comes again, slightly more insistent, and she sighs. What ungodly hour is this to have callers? And them in quarantine at that!

Well, whoever it is, they have to be dealt with.

She switches on the kitchen light as she passes it, and unlocks the front door. It swings open to reveal Jim Wilcox, standing there six foot six and well wrapped up in a heavy coat and hat, a torch in one hand and a plastic shopping bag in the other, weighed down with what she suspects is a glass bottle of alcohol.

"I wasn't sure if you'd be up or not," he says, a slight glint in his eye even in the face of so much catastrophe. "But I suspected you would." And his lip twitches.

Sherlock leans up against the door, and wishes she felt like smiling. Though it is amusing to have him on her doorstep. "And are you not supposed to be confined to your own house?"

He's pale, but he reddens just slightly at her words in the light from the kitchen. "I am. But I doubt if't matters much visitin' you."

There's no arguing with that. "I suppose you may come in. You'll have tea?" She moves back towards the sink and puts the kettle boiling. Jim steps in behind her, taking off his boots and shutting the door.

"If it's going. I don't want t'put you t'any trouble." He sets his plastic bag and torch down on the counter. The contents of the bag clinks, confirming her suspicions. "I brought you a bottle ah whisky. Peace offerin'." He stands awkwardly at the table, though there is a chair that he can sit into right beside him.

"What are you offering peace over? There's never been trouble between you and I." She puts tea bags into two mugs. No point making any for Irene. She's probably fallen asleep in her dark room. At least one of them can get some rest.

"There could be yet," Jim says, voice hollow. "For all we know I'm t'one brought it in." Sherlock's hand stills over the sugar bowl. She's had her suspicions, she must admit, but ruled it out in favour of other possibilities, mostly based on the science in the matter. She didn't think the considerations would be echoed, and certainly not by Big Jim Wilcox. "They say't doesn't always show up in sheep t'way't should. A lot of t'time't goes unnoticed or gets put down t'other things. Tis easy enough to happen with sheep, there're so many other things that show similar. And there I was, moving sheep halfway 'round Cumbria."

"That doesn't mean you're at fault, Jim. The odds are your sheep were clear when you moved them from Longtown. Now sit down and stop looking so awkward." She sets his tea down on the table and he nods, obeying her order. She takes the bottle of whisky out of the bag and opens it, pouring a good drop into both of their mugs. "Is this what provoked you to walk across several fields and cross a river in the early hours of the morning?"

He nods, a little sheepishly. "I couldn't sleep thinkin' I might ha' brought it down on you. Well, I couldn't sleep anyway."

"And of course you couldn't get over later in the day. Not with vets and army personnel crawling around. It was a reasonable decision to make." The sheer audacity of it is brilliant.

"And I couldn't come by road or they'd see t'tracks and I'd land myself in worse trouble." He nods.

"I don't think you brought it in. I think it was going to come in anyway, even if you'd left your sheep at Longtown. Especially after Madox went down."

"I wish I could believe you." And Jim's voice is soft now, two big hands wrapped around his mug. "But I can't, Sherlock. I've lost t'many lambs this season. I put it down to the sudden movement and overcrowdin', but what if t'wasn't? What if t'was the first sign and I ignored it?"

"It won't make an ounce of difference now and besides," Sherlock sips at her tea and continues, "the virus plume from sheep would have had trouble travelling that distance. It's a different strain from '81 and doesn't become airborne as easily through the respiratory system." It's the best comfort she can offer. "It's more likely scavengers travelling over from Madox's yard."

* * *

 

When Irene emerges from her room a couple of hours later, it's to the sight of Sherlock curled up asleep on the couch, wrapped up in her hoodie. She fetches a blanket from the cupboard and spreads it over Sherlock, then heads into the kitchen. There are two dirty tea mugs on the table, and a track where a pair of dirty boots stood by the door. With a sigh, Irene tidies the mess.

They're down to their last drop of milk. No harm anyway. Mrs. Hudson will be by in an hour with groceries and she'll bring a bottle.

She flicks on the television, hunting for something to watch, and finds only a news. At the first sight of heaped carcasses she turns it back off again. Sherlock doesn't stir, the chemistry journal she was reading when she dozed off lying on the floor beside her. And sitting on the mantelpiece, the photo of Ford and Valjean is turned to the wall.

Irene does not begrudge Sherlock the sleep. On the contrary, in fact. It's the first she's slept in days, and it's a relief to see her finally getting some rest. Irene just wishes she could find somewhere to sleep that won't give her a creak in the neck.

Later, after Mrs. Hudson arrives at the gate to make her delivery and Irene is back in the kitchen putting everything away, Sherlock awakes. She stretches and shuffles off to the bathroom, only to return five minutes later and lie back down on the couch.

"Do you want anything to eat?" Irene calls from the kitchen, a bag of porridge oats and a bottle of milk in her hands.

The reply is soft. "I'm not hungry."

"You should eat something."

"I don't feel like it."

Maybe later, Irene sighs, and puts the porridge into a cupboard next to a bottle of whiskey that wasn't there last night. "Where'd the whiskey come from?"

"Wilcox."

"I didn't think he could leave the place."

"He came cross country."

Irene chuckles. Trust Big Jim Wilcox to find a way to do what he wants.

"Irene." Her voice is almost pitiful.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Will you come in here? Please?"

"What for?"

"To put on _All Creatures_." What else but that now?

"With Lynda Bellingham?" They've both always liked Lynda Bellingham. There was something about her in those days.

"Yes."

"Of course." She crosses into the sitting room and fiddles with the video recorder, slotting in a tape with some of Lynda Bellingham's episodes on it.

Sherlock sits up, and grabs her hand as she makes to go back to the kitchen. "Will you," she swallows, "Will you join me?" And the softness of her voice goes straight to Irene's heart.

"If you want me to." She sits on the couch and Sherlock lies back down, head in her lap.

"Wilcox feels guilty," she murmurs, the comforting theme music of _All Creatures_ washing over both of them.

Irene thinks of Jim, of his long nights in the lambing shed and his wife's worry, their two five year olds bottle-feeding orphan lambs. "I rather thought he would," she says.

* * *

 

_The day goes something like this, now._

_Seven in the morning, S- gives up reading whatever old journal she's spent the night reading instead of sleeping. I get up and make breakfast which she picks at and we both drink tea. She then dozes on the couch for a couple of hours._

_Ten o’ clock, Mrs. H- delivers groceries to the gate. She's not allowed on the farm itself or she'll be quarantined. We find out who else around has gone down._

_Eleven, S- gives up on sleep so we settle onto the couch and watch a few episodes of_ All Creatures Great and Small.

_Sometime after that, S- goes outside and climbs the hay bales which will be burnt in the clean-up and plays the violin as long as she can stick it in the cold. After that, I try to persuade her to eat again and she has something small to humour me. We try to find something to watch, and end up reading until I head for bed around ten, and try to sleep. She might or might not crawl in beside me. And such is life._

Irene sits back and regards her work. At least it's not completely made up.


	12. 25 March 2001

It is with no fanfare that Captain Watson arrives in the morning. She heads out with Sherlock and sites a place in one of the far fields to start the pyre-building. An hour later, a team of diggers and low-loaders and trailers of coal and timber arrive. They clear an area and set to work, and work through the day into the darkness. Joanne directs them using phones and radios in each of the vehicles.

"Your neighbour there, James Wilcox,"  Joanne says, pointing out Wilcox's farm on the map she's spread across the bonnet of her jeep, "we tried to get his sheep into Great Orton, with the airfield operation. At the same time we tried to find a pyre suitable to take your cattle. Unfortunately they're already burning to capacity, and with the BSE risk we can't bury them. So what we propose to do, with your permission, is to build a pyre here. It'll take a couple of days, because we need it big enough not just for your stock but also for Wilcox's sheep and Connolly's stock as well."

"And will it burn for three weeks like is happening elsewhere?" If the bitterness Sherlock feels comes through in her voice then the Captain doesn't react to it.

She smiles grimly, looking back down at her map. "I would hope not. The timber is well-seasoned and the coal is dry. It should only last a few days at the most. So, do you grant us your permission?"

Sherlock sighs, looking out across her fields, soon to be blackened. The smell of the carcasses in the silage clamp is starting to seep out. And Pat Connolly's land is too low and wet really to build a pyre on. The digger continues digging out the trench that will be filled with coal. At least it's a good distance back from the house. "I don't suppose I have a choice, really."

* * *

 

_They’ve started building the pyre, so maybe this means that for us at least the nightmare’s almost over._


	13. 26-27 March 2001

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Self-harm

As the dawn breaks, the diggers and other equipment start up again. They build the timbers and the coal and add oil to the pyre as needed and stack again. They manage to erect a bridge across the river and the trucks start carrying in Wilcox's sheep, stacking them onto what's been built so far. Wilcox himself comes down at one point, and looks over the situation. He doesn't see Sherlock, who is back on her bales of hay for the last time. By evening they'll have been taken out as well and added to the pyre, along with what straw is left, such is the fear that the virus might have embedded itself into them.

Wilcox doesn't stay long. He looks over the pyre, and takes off his hat, then shakes his head and walks back to cross the river to his own land. The next morning, when the last of his sheep are in, the lorries move on and draw from Connolly's. They draw from there into the night until they have everything out. The smell can be caught in the house, heavy and reeking and Irene sweeps around making sure the windows are closed.

Joanne is the last to leave that evening, and she meets Sherlock at the gate. "We'll start drawing from the silage clamp in the morning," she says, her eyes gentle. And then, "All going well, we'll get it lit tomorrow sometime." She swallows and looks away, towards the road. "I'm sorry." Though what she's apologising for, Sherlock doesn't know.

It's not until later that the magnitude of the next day hits her.

* * *

 

Tomorrow. Tomorrow they'll finish the pyre. Tomorrow Ford's life's work will go up in flames. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow now, the cows she's loved will be unrecognisable. The calves she's delivered will be beyond her grasp, as they have been beyond her help. Irene will try to hide her pity and tears. Captain Watson will try to stay professional, will clench her jaw and direct her men, the consummate commander, firm yet gentle and so fucking compassionate. What good is compassion now? Compassion won't bring them back. Compassion won't fill this hole in her chest, this hollowness into which everything falls. It's all over. All of the time, all of the work, all of the calculations and savoured things, the longings of late nights and crutches of cold dawns. It's all bloated in a straw-filled silage clamp of congealed blood.

Her uncles would hate her for letting this happen - Sherrinford and Andrew alike. She let it go on her watch, of course they would hate her. But what more could she do? She couldn't purify the air going into those sheds. If she carried it in, she hadn't known there was cause to worry at the time.

(She should have worried though. She should have been more careful. Why wasn't she more careful? Why did she not purify all of the air? Why did she not disinfect herself before ever going near the cows?)

The mirror shows her a pale reflection of blood-shot eyes and pinched lips and contrasting clean, wavy hair because clean, wavy hair is the one vanity she allows herself. Such a vanity is wrong now.

A pang as the first lock of hair is dropped, a sacrifice curling to the tiled floor. The second follows easier and the third isn't felt. It all must go. It all carried the infection. Her skin, her hair, her breath.

She cannot tear out her lungs, she does not have the scalpel for it. They are at fault too. They harboured the virus so she could breathe it out milking and feeding and checking. They caused this.

The reflection is still wrong as she sets down the scissors. Her face is too sharp, blanched, and her mouth curves into a mocking smile, upper lip curled. She did not press the button trigger, but she condemned them nonetheless.

A crash. The reflection shatters, glass cracking and falling into the sink, knuckles stinging. But, oh, the pain is a relief. The first time she's felt anything in so long and it's better than sex, better than cocaine, better than any experiment. This pain is feeling and her body cries out for more of it and more, the skin of her arms cracking open, blood welling out, blurred through her tears and she hasn't felt so alive in years.

* * *

 

When Irene finds Sherlock, she’s kneeling amidst the broken shards of mirror, blood dripping from her arms, staining the glass and locks of dark hair. The keening noise she makes as she rocks back and forth is an icy dagger in Irene’s chest, and her eyes burn as she kneels beside her, pulling her into her arms.

There is no need for words, and what, really can be said? _I’m sorry our cows got infected. I’m sorry they had to be shot. I’m sorry they’re going to be burned and there’s no escape._ Or _pull yourself together. They're just cows. You would have had them all culled for one reason or another eventually if they didn't just die of old age. They're animals. They don't count. Be glad it's not people_. Or _This is just a minor thing. Forget about it. We'll start again as soon as they give us clearance and this won't even matter._ One thing is as bad as the other, cruel and callous. Those cows were family, and she and Sherlock both loved them as such, no matter what outsiders might think. To see them come to this is a walking nightmare.

So much of what's tearing Sherlock apart is guilt. Guilt at not being able to protect her animals, and guilt at letting them go on her watch. Irene knows that there's a part of Sherlock that wonders if this would have happened if Ford were here, and wonders what he would have done differently that could protect them. There is no point in saying that they couldn't be protected.

Carefully, Irene guides Sherlock off the floor and sits her on the edge of the bath. She picks shards of glass out of the cuts on Sherlock's arms, and cleans them, bandaging them with iodine, gauze and cotton wool, and the athletic bandages used for sprains. They’re not deep, not really, though they are more than scratches and Irene can’t help the wave of relief that washes over her.

Sherlock's tears have dried, and she regards Irene's handiwork through tired, bloodshot eyes. Her hair sticks out randomly, uneven from where she's butchered it with the scissors. It's hardly a problem for tonight.

Irene helps her up from the bath and guides her to their bedroom, laying her down on the bed and crawling in beside her, without bothering to undress. What does something as mundane as dressing for bed matter now?

She pulls Sherlock to her chest, and cards her fingers through that rough, short hair. It isn't long until Sherlock drifts off, her breaths easing into soft whimpers. But there is no sleep for Irene, not tonight. Not when she's failed to protect Sherlock from herself.


	14. 28 March 2001

They had to dig away the snow in order to build the pyre. Joanne surveys it as dispassionately as she can - the timber sleepers, the oil, the coal and straw, the chains dangling from the pallet forks on the loaders as the carcasses are swung off them to lie side by side, then one on top of the other. Heads and tails - loose now that rigor mortis has passed - hang low beneath their torsos as they are carried in, four feet lashed together pointing towards the sky, tongues lolling forth from open mouths.

She tries to be dispassionate, she does, the job demands it. (And it is a job no matter how much it feels like a crime.) But it's so difficult when the flakes of snow drift over them all from the heavy steel clouds, coating the carcasses, clinging to her protective suit, flaking in Sherlock's dark hair.

There is nothing for Sherlock to do now. Not yet. Her work will come after, when the army has left and the primary disinfection crew swept through. But it must weigh as a duty on her, seeing these cows through to the very end.

Her face is pale and sharper than ever, almost as white as the snow falling around her. Her hair is rough in its shortness, jarring when Joanne has become used to long hair. The sight of her red-rimmed eyes like being stabbed, heart-twisting and driving home when has happened out here. This isn't the end of a business, it's the end of a life.

Irene stands at Sherlock's other side, their arms interlinked, hands in pockets. She doesn't speak but bites her lip, eyes flicking from Sherlock to the dead cows and back again, features pinched with worry. Sherlock shakes her head, almost imperceptibly, and they continue their silent vigil, the snowflakes a shroud for their dreams.

* * *

 

It is evening by the time they get it lit. The flames crackle through the straw and hiss as they reach the carcasses. Joanne oversees the lighting and a crew of men stay to feed the flames the oil-soaked straw through the night to ensure a proper heat is reached. The Captain, kind as she is, tries to convince Irene and Sherlock to return to the house and stay there, but Sherlock is having none of it. Irene, for her part, would much prefer that Sherlock get some sleep and try to think on something else, especially after last night. But there is no arguing with her now.

As the flames take off, spiralling towards the sky, Sherlock takes the violin out of its case. The smell down here beside the pyre is almost unbearable, but the wind is blowing in the opposite direction and the greasy black smoke rushes away from them. At least it is warm.

Closing her eyes, Sherlock puts the bow to strings and commences to play, though her cut arms protest jarringly. The music sings out across the land, half-drowned in the crackling of the fire, and Irene's eyes sting with tears. Swooping dives and glorious arches seem to fill the air, flowing out as if magic from Sherlock's hands. Every ounce of pain, every flash of grief and echo of bitterness washes over them, and Irene lets the tears trickle without fighting them. What fighting can be done now? What is left for them to fight? The war against the virus will carry on, but it will be on other battlefields across Cumbria and the UK. In Ireland, and France, and Holland too.

Joanne nods to herself, and swallows. This is the disaster she's wrought, through no fault of her own, and it leaves a foul taste in her mouth that has nothing to do with the smoke. And as she watches Sherlock play, the flames spark off her tears, glistening gold on her pale face.

The war against foot and mouth must be fought. Of that Joanne has no doubt. But as she stands and takes in the culmination of the last few days' work, she can't help thinking there's a better way to fight it.


	15. 30 March 2001

_We've been faced with yet more delays before we can leave this ruin of the farm - Captain W- is having trouble getting all of the disinfectant she needs. S- has moved on to forking straw and muck out of the calf sheds, to pass the time as much as anything. She forks it all into the bucket on the loader of the tractor, and I empty the bucket into the dung stead. The smoke of the pyre blows into the yard and almost blinds us as we work, and the smell is unbearable, but it's better to be at something than tearing our minds apart. There'll be plenty of time for that later when all of the work is done._

* * *

 

Every muscle burns but there's something righteous about it. The slits she put in her arms only a few nights ago burn. She's probably torn them open with carelessness, though not enough that they bleed through the layers of bandages. A glorious release, the pain. Her shirt clings to her back with sweat, the pulse pounds hard in her throat. Sweat streaks down her cheeks but is it sweat or tears?

The last time she forked the straw out of this shed, she was getting ready for the first new-born calves of the season. Was that only the end of August? It seems a world away. Those calves are gone now, of course, still burning alongside their mothers. The mask covering Sherlock's nose and mouth is wet from the sweat and the moisture of her breath. The wet is preferable to breathing in the thick smoke pervading the yard.

And when will there be calves in this shed again? They say she can buy cattle back in a year's time - sooner, if she chooses to go down the path of buying animals just to watch and see if they get it or not - but by then will there be cows left in the country to buy? Will the restrictions be lifted? Will it be eighteen months? Two years? Will this ever pass?

Irene says it will. She says it will pass and they will start again and all will be back to how it was. But it can never be the same. Any cow she buys now will never be the same, no matter how beautiful, how brilliant, how similar to what she's lost. They will not know the roadways and paddocks, will have to learn the parlour, will have to get to know each other and adjust to Sherlock herself. It can only be their daughters and granddaughters who will be hers, and even then they will not be their predecessors. They will not be the bloodlines built up by her uncle, and her grand-aunt before him, so carefully preserved and cultivated. They will not be Tess, or Sirius, or Patroclus.  (Or Valjean. Christ, they could never be Valjean.) All of those are in the smoke slowly blowing through the yards and sheds, ghosts haunting where they once walked, strangling her breath because she could do nothing for them. She could not protect them from this, so now she can only pay for it - fingers blistered raw from the handle of the three-pronged fork, dreams awash with blood and straw and all the while the cloying smoke trying to fill her lungs and this must be what atonement is, though she cannot remember what her crimes are.


	16. 02 April 2001

Captain Joanne Watson, as ever, is the first to arrive in the yard. It's almost amusing how far ahead she is of the men in her command. She is undoubtedly more tired than she was that first morning she arrived ahead of the slaughter team. Her face is pale, the white disposable coveralls hanging looser than they did before. And it strikes Sherlock, watching from the distance, that this is the first time she's worn the hood down. Her sandy blonde hair is freshly washed and tied back, giving an impression of severity with doesn't match at all with the kindness of the smile she gives Irene.

It's infuriating. A woman like Joanne Watson to end up in the army, to get wounded in war and sentenced to a desk job only to be called into service directing the slaughter of livestock. A woman like Joanne Watson who can make the men working under her fear and yet give a smile as soft as a balm for those hurt by her actions. A woman like Joanne Watson making judgment calls and analysing problems should be a surgeon or a doctor, helping those in need of help with more than a clipboard and a bolt pistol.

Infuriating doesn't sum it up.

Joanne exchanges much idle chat with Irene and in that regard is plenty familiar and ordinary before setting out across the land to the site of the pyre, now a pile of cold ash. Sherlock throws the binoculars away from her and flops down onto plywood that should be covered in straw. The loft over the vacant calf shed is an excellent vantage point, but just now she doesn't need to see the mountain of contrasts that is Captain Joanne Watson.

Infuriating.

* * *

 

Unlike many of the other pyres Joanne has come across in the few weeks she's been in Cumbria, the one she organised on Sherlock Holmes' land has burned down the fastest. Even the one built on Joseph Madox's farm has smoke seeping out. She can't help feeling a little proud at how well put together it was to burn so well.

There's still no sign of Sherlock around the yard when she gets back after her walk. She pokes around the sheds a bit to see what needs to be done. There's a pile of dung built high at the back, but the sheds themselves have been scraped clean. At least it won't take too long to do the clean-up and disinfection.

Christ, but she needs to find Sherlock to give her an update and explain what she need to do.

"Will you have a drop of tea, Joanne?" Irene asks, leaning against the doorframe of the house after she's checked the sheds. It'll be another hour or so before the disinfection crew arrives.

"Just a quick one. Do you know where Sherlock could be?"

A troubled look crosses Irene's face and she frowns. "She went out a few hours ago with the binoculars and her violin, but I haven't seen her since. A lot of the phone service isn't great around here. I'd say she's probably off playing in some of the fields. She'll come back in when she gets cold."

"You don't sound too concerned." Joanne takes off her boots and steps inside, sitting at the table.

Irene shrugs. "It's always been normal for her to disappear like this. If she didn't, then I'd be worried. But the binoculars and the violin mean she's thinking."

"You've known each other a long time."

And the smile that spreads across Irene's face makes her eyes shine bright. "More than nine years. I mean," she swallows, the smile fading, replaced with shadows "we've had our ups and downs and went our separate ways more than once but," and her lips twitch again, "we always seem to come back to each other. This last time we've been together for four years. So far."

"And this won't damage things?" Joanne is reluctant to mention the slaughter in so many words, but there is no need to. Their lives have fallen apart around them and she's made it worse, but Irene just shakes her head.

"No. Things will work out. They always do." She sighs, seeming to consider for a moment before saying, "I know she doesn't seem too nice at the moment but you're seeing her at a low point. The worst of it has hardly even hit her yet, but when it does I'll be right here and she'll be all right in the end. It just might take a while." Yet even as she smiles her eyes are haunted.

Joanne wishes she hadn't asked so many questions.

* * *

 

After the tea, Joanne ventures back outside. The disinfection crew is still about fifteen minutes away, delayed by ice patches on some of the narrower roads. This time, at least, she finds the elusive Holmes. Sherlock is sitting in one of the meal bins of the parlour, as she was before on the day after the slaughter, smoking a cigarette and dangling a pair of binoculars by the string. She's pale and haggard, and the short hair only makes her look more so.

"I see you've returned, Captain." Her voice is hoarse, and Joanne suspects it's from the cigarettes. "Please, sit." She gestures to the neighbouring meal bin. "What do you think of my office?"

 Joanne settles into the indicated meal bin. "It suits you."

Sherlock smirks. "I rather think so myself. Might look better though with cow muck on the floor and milk running through the jars in the pit. Though I suspect it'll be some time before I see such a sight again."

"I could be six months, or it could be a year, and the choice is yours. We'll disinfect the place now and if you do it again in a few weeks’ time it'll be six months. Otherwise, you're going to be quite busy next March." Joanne rattles the information off as if she's learned it by rote, and she almost has. It's the same basic formula at every farm she visits for disinfection. Six months, or a year.

"And the pyre ash? What about that?"

"A digger and bulldozer will arrive within the hour to bury it six foot deep. Lorries will draw the dung away for incineration. I suggest you stay in the house. The disinfectant smells quite strong coming of high-pressure washers. You won't be able visit your office for a few days until it dies down." She sounds nonchalant, and inside her heart is pounding. She can only hope she isn't digging deep into fresh wounds.

Sherlock stubs out her cigarette. "There's nothing for me to see here anyway." And finally she turns to face Joanne. "Thank you for your service, Captain." She curls the last word as she says it, then bows her head and presses her lips to Joanne's.

Joanne's breath catches in her throat. This is wrong. This is wrong on so many levels, so terribly inappropriate and unethical. Sherlock draws back, her eyes slits, then stands out of her meal bin, takes the violin and bow in hand and stalks out.

Joanne can only sit there, and blink.

That's the last time she sees Sherlock Holmes before she leaves the farm for the last time when her duty is done that evening. She tells Irene that they are free to leave as they wish, and almost vomits when Irene smiles at her.

Christ, but what has she done?

* * *

 

_Captain W- has arrived and marshalled her men into order. She's a truly remarkable woman, a power unto herself as she issues directions and inspects the work and even joins in to get things done faster. It's both a joy and a relief to see her in action. At least soon we shall be free, though it will continue for so many others. The case number increases each day and the pyres keep burning and there is no real end in sight._

* * *

 

Meanwhile hours earlier, when Sherlock returned to the house in a semi-daze after leaving Joanne in the milking parlour, Irene merely looked up from her newspaper with an arched brow and asked, for all the world as if they were back in uni, "And is Captain Watson straight?"

Sherlock, such was the shock that Irene's question was to her, laughed for the first time since all of the trouble started. True, it was vaguely hysterical and the hysteria of it meant that it lasted a while, but it was a laugh nonetheless, even with the tears trickling down her cheeks. Irene laughed too, because how could she not? Everything has gone to hell and up in flames and what can they do now but laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of the mess they’ve found themselves in.

"Not as straight as she'd like to be," Sherlock gasped at last, wiping tears from her eyes. And the grief prickled at the back of her mind but she pushed it away, just for now. Just for this.

Irene shook her head, threw her newspaper down, and stood, wrapped her arms around Sherlock and declared, "You just had to know!"

Sherlock kissed her and murmured, "Of course. But she's still infuriating."

Irene sighed, still smiling.. "Yes, dear."

And in that moment, crystal clear and both holding on in that sitting room for all the world as if they were the only survivors of a terrible tragedy, the two of them felt more human than they had in six weeks.


	17. 02 May 2001

Captain Joanne Watson had hoped never to have to return to Blackstoke under such circumstances. In the month of May, she is presented with no choice otherwise. One farm – that of Bill Doyle – which for so long managed to withstand the plague be-falling its neighbours has finally succumbed. Well, it’s not that the farm at Blackstoke has so much as the home farm near Carlisle has, so all of the sheep have to go, and if the Ministry are to be believed then they likely all have it anyway.

Though, frankly, Joanne’s not sure who to believe anymore. There’s only so much of the Ministry that a body can take when they’ve spent days overseeing the shooting of thousands of seemingly healthy sheep and cattle, all on Ministry orders.

This time, at least, there will be no pyres. The sheep – when slaughtered - will be loaded and trucked to the burial pit where until a couple of months ago Great Orton airfield lay. Now it’s a mass of trenches, and Joanne can’t bear to think how many animals will have been buried there by the time they’re through.

Having settled into her room at Blackstoke Inn, Joanne finds herself wondering about that amazing pair of women from before, Sherlock and Irene. In truth, they’ve rarely been far from her mind in all of the months since she left. It’s difficult to forget them when she wakes to Sherlock’s lips on hers, as if a ghost, or sees flashes – behind her eyes – of Sherlock in her milking parlour, as if it were a fortress, or of Irene with her windswept hair, eyes focused on the shed where the slaughter was happening, or of both Sherlock and Irene standing with their arms interlinked watching the pyre being built, the cows laid out, the earlier memory of Sherlock carrying the last calf – only a handful of hours old, already orphaned – in her arms ready for the needle, or Irene in the kitchen quietly making tea and feeble attempts to lighten the mood. How could Joanne forget them, when they were her first? The boys on the crews, the vets, the Ministry people, they all remark that the first farm they visit is the hardest to forget.

(It’s not just that milestone in this case which makes those two women so memorable. Joanne knows that though she refuses to acknowledge that such sentimentality exists. But she’s fond of both of them in a way she can’t identify or understand, in a way that runs deeper than a desire for friends. It is equal parts fascination and longing, though for what her waking mind is uncertain. She pushes the thoughts away, builds a wall against them. They are desperately unprofessional and inappropriate, and it disgusts her to think that in the midst of such tragedy and crisis she can even think to entertain a fantasy of Sherlock Holmes' lips.)

Joanne heads downstairs from her room and out to the pub next door. This evening she is idle, the Brigadier busy with his maps and pins. Before arriving at her quarters she checked in with him at HQ in Carlisle. He firmly believes that they’re getting the better of this thing, though whether that’s a façade or not remains to be seen. Maybe, she supposes, ordering a vodka and orange, he’s just trying to maintain the morale of his troops, having seen the strain that so many of them are coming under.

Joanne sips at her drink, revelling in the burn of it as it hits her stomach. It shocks her back to her senses, back to the surprisingly quiet pub.  She’d expected the place to be busier. All in, there’s only about fifteen other people, scattered into pairs and threes, drinking and murmuring softly. She recognises some of them, farmers with nothing left to lose except their compensation money.

A wave of queasiness washes over her and she sets the glass of vodka down. She may have taken everything from Sherlock and Irene, but she did the same thing to these men and women and their families. She came in with her different teams and tore their worlds apart. It’s almost more than she can bear to sit here –

“Captain Watson, isn’t it?” A man, probably in his forties, who looks disconcertingly familiar, settles onto the stool next to Joanne. His dark hair is greying, crevasse-like lines tracking around his mouth and deep brown eyes. He would have been very attractive when he was younger, and the vestiges of that past handsomeness remain. _Wilcox_ , a voice that sounds like Sherlock Holmes’ says _, Big Jim Wilcox, more correctly known as James_.

“Yes, I am, Mister Wilcox.” Joanne smiles politely and Wilcox nods.

“May I buy you a drink?” He nods towards her glass, and Joanne hesitates. As she re-calls, he has a wife and two daughters, so what does he want buying a drink for her?

“With all due respect, sir, I’m not sure if it’s right.”

Wilcox smiles knowingly. “I know what you’re thinkin’, tha’ I’m tryin’ to come onto you, but it’s nothing like tha’. I just want t’thank you for all that you’ve done. You and your people, you’ve taken t’mess that we had here and settled it. Before the army arrived, there were sheep and cattle dead two weeks, no sign of being burned. Ah course they were spreadin’ it like tha’, with t’birds. Hundreds and thousands all o’er Cumbria. We’d ha’ been like tha’ too, not only me but Sherlock Holmes and Pat Connolly and a host of others. We’d ‘ave ‘ad to live right in t’middle ah tha’ mess for howev’er long it took t’Ministry to get it together if not for you all.” He nods, and offers her his hand. “We owe you a debt, Captain.”

The smile that comes to Joanne’s lips now is a genuine one, her eyes burning at the kindness of his words. How he can think so highly of her, when she’s done so much to him is beyond her. She accepts his hand and shakes it. “Thank you, Mister Wilcox. I think I’ll have that drink after all.”

* * *

 

Wilcox buys her a second vodka, and then invites her to join him and some of his friends at a table. Connolly and Madox and two or three others whom Joanne has come to recognise are there, and they accept her without question, each offering to buy her a drink in turn though she has to refuse, not wanting to get drunk and disgrace herself. Though Madox then has a brainwave and asks if she’ll have 7Up or Coke or orange. She accepts an orange, and the rest of them follow suit with similar offers.

Mostly, the farmers avoid the topic of foot and mouth, though they’re studious about their avoidance which leads Joanne to suspect that it’s their main topic of conversation. They talk instead about how things usually are, the lateness of the spring, anecdotes from days gone by, the delayed election. They draw Joanne in, asking her about Kosovo, not pressing her when it comes to particular aspects of her service, allowing her to volunteer as much or as little as she wants. They ask of her plans for when “this thing” has passed, and for the first time in years she’s unsure of what to answer. Usually, she’d say that she plans to serve another term, but on this day, her once-wounded shoulder aching with her lack of sleep and the knowledge that come morning she’s overseeing another slaughter make the words die on her tongue. So instead she says she’ll see when the time comes, and that leads to them asking when she thinks the time will come.

“I doubt if even God knows that,” she says, and each of the farmers give a short laugh before Connolly wonders aloud whether it would be a good idea to take a computer course, and the conversation flows into that.

“May’s well,” Madox answers, sighing into his drink. “T’will all go that way now, you watch. And what else have you t’be at? By right, we all should. Upskill, they say. We’ll all need to, t’find work when this passes.” His voice hoarsens, eyes glistening though he doesn’t look up from his drink. “Won’t be a sheep left in t’country, nor a cow. And if there is, they’ll put us all on computers anyway. Make life easier for them. We can only get so far on what’s comin’ in from this, and what the wives can bring in. Best be prepared for what’s ahead.” He nods emphatically, and throws back the last of his whisky, his pearls of wisdom leaving silence around the table, until one of the other men says, “At least they’re not all in a hoop about BSE testin’ anyway,” and the dry chuckles that follow dispels the mood, though Joanne is certain that Madox wipes a tear from his eye.

“What’s become of Miss Holmes?” she asks, eventually, when another lull falls in the conversation. Connolly sips at his whisky, and Madox runs his fingers over the coaster under his own whisky. One of the others – Archer, she now knows – excuses himself and slides his chair back from the table, standing up and walking away.

“She took't hard,” Wilcox says, softly. “Very hard. Irene brought her to London to get away from't, and they’re staying in a flat of Martha Hudson’s. She owns a block ah three, and she went down with them, to keep an eye, y’know?” His voice is toneless, betraying none of the emotion evident in the tension of his jaw.

Joanne nods. She already knew Sherlock took it hard – she surmised as much after she cut her hair, and how out-of-sorts she looked that last day that they saw each other, when Sherlock kissed her. (She blocks the memory before it can swim before her eyes. It has no place here.)

“I don’t blame Sherlock for needin' t'escape,” Madox says, not looking up. “I would too, only I don’t want t'pull the kids out of school. They need t'routine.”

“She just needs some time,” Connolly says. “Ford would be the same, were he here. She and Irene will be back when they’re ready. Sherlock will be settin' the kitchen table on fire and Irene losin' the head before long. Just you wait'n see.”

* * *

 

When she gets back to her room, it’s nine o’ clock at night, and for the first time since receiving the foot and mouth detail, Joanne feels as if she’s doing at least some good. The kindness and understanding of these farming men is such that she is easier in her mind.

Taking a sheet of paper from the re-fill pad in her bag, she sits down at the writing desk, resolved to write some letters to ease her mind more..

For a long moment, she sits and stares at the piece of paper, before resolving not to mention anything about the kiss.

_Dear Sherlock Holmes_

The clock ticks, the pen nib scratches at the paper, the light of the desk lamp casts its soothing glow. And Joanne is able to finally set her thoughts in order, and hope that maybe she can be forgiven. (Though why she yearns for such forgiveness is beyond her understanding.)


	18. 23 June 2001

Paris is nice and all, but it's not Cumbria. Which is, of course, the best thing just now, but still. She misses the hills, the fell, the grass and trees and even the damp cold of the place she's come to call home. It's a bone-deep longing to go back - which she has not expected in the least, long-used to picking up from a place and leaving. To go back now, though, would be the absolute wrong thing to do. She likes to think she could handle it, could find something to occupy herself with. But for Sherlock it would be detrimental, though Sherlock refuses to admit as much.

Though Sherlock is not a Cumbrian native, up there is more her home than Irene's. She's laboured over it, bled over it, only to see it all go up in flames. She must surely be aching with the depth of her feeling though she won't show it, not directly. It's in the way she picks at her scars - for the wounds on her arms have become scars, thanks to her constant scratching at the scabs.

She studiously avoids mentioning what's happened, though her lack of conversation hasn't inhibited her ability to compose. The violin has, naturally, made the journey over to the continent. For now, it sits on the bedside locker, abandoned, Sherlock's fingers stroking over the bow she still holds as Irene flicks through the channels trying to find a news. She suspects Sherlock has withdrawn from their surroundings with the help of such a soothing, repetitive action and withdrawn to her mind palace.

(They don’t discuss the kiss shared with Captain Watson, not after that first evening over two months ago. But it hangs there, in the air, at once a question and an acceptance. They both understand that if things were different, in another world, then, maybe…. It might be possible, for the three of them. If the Captain were free of her duty, and felt the same.)

Irene finds a news, eventually, and fiddles with the controls to turn on the English subtitles. Thankfully the hotel's televisions are equipped for such things. She settles back on the bed beside Sherlock and lets the French go over her head. Politics has never been much to her taste. She's always preferred writing about social problems as opposed to political ones - they tend to stir people's emotions and interests more.

"We should head south," she says, for something to say, knowing Sherlock won't respond. "Catch the sun, see the vineyards, you know for a time the greatest champagne houses were headed by widows? They were the only women allowed to own property, and trade, having no man left to control them. Maybe we could head on to Spain. Or we could go back to London. You could work as a detective, just for a little while." She'd done just that when they were in London only a few weeks ago. Following cases in the newspapers and making use of the confidential police line, Sherlock had pointed the authorities in the right direction to solve a double murder, a forgery and several thefts. She'd seemed to enjoy it, at the time. Another glimpse into another life that they may have had…

France had been her idea, too. She'd tired of her mother's concern, Mrs. Hudson's kindness. Or so she's told Irene, but Irene is beginning to suspect that there is more to it than that.

Sherlock stiffens next to her, snapping her out of her reverie. The newscaster's French is meaningless, but the pyre that flashes onto the screen says far too much. Irene stretches for the controls to turn it off but Sherlock stills her hand, her fingers light but firm.

"Foot and mouth disease restrictions in place in France and Ireland since March have been lifted. At that time, Ireland had one case while two were found here, one in Mayenne and the other east of Paris in Mitry-Mory. The French and Irish cases alike were connected to the ongoing crisis in the United Kingdom. As three months have passed since the last cases in both Ireland and France, the OIE has declared both countries free of the disease and the European Commission has removed the imposed trading restrictions. The epidemic continues to rage in the UK," and the clip of a burning pyre changes to that of sheep carcasses being tipped into a pit. A white-suited figure overseeing the disposal looks oddly familiar, though all of the present figures are wearing the same disposable white suits, like forensics officers on a day out. "At present, one thousand, seven hundred and eighty-nine farms have been confirmed as infected, with more being discovered on a daily basis."

The story changes to something inconsequential and Sherlock sighs. "I see Captain Watson is still fighting the war." Her voice is hoarse from disuse.

Irene allows herself a brief smile. Finally, _finally_ , she’s willing to talk about something, even if it’s this. "How can you be sure that's her?"

"I spent days observing her observing the slaughter of our cows and overseeing the building of the pyre. I learned her stance." She turns to face Irene, whose stomach has churned at her words, and squeezes the hand she's still holding. "I think we should inspect the cows in this country. They have several breeds of remarkable potential."

Well, Irene can't say she was particularly expecting _that_. "Just out of curiosity, or as market research?"

Sherlock smiles, a glint to her eye. "Both."


	19. 21 December 2001

2001 is drawing to a close, and though freedom is within their grasp, the spectre of foot and mouth still looms large. Outwardly, it appears as if the countryside is returning to normal. The burial pits are grown over, the pyres long since disappeared. Like any war, there is jubilation but the recovery will take a long time. Driving through Cumbria as a civilian, Joanne is struck by the change, by the smiling faces and easy voices she meets. Though the scars linger for many, and she sees the ghosts of flames in their eyes.

It's snowing when she arrives in Blackstoke. The fat flakes drift listlessly towards the ground, sparkling in the street lights. It's quiet, but not that hollow quiet that was so marked a few months ago.  This is contentment.

She'll never understand what drew her back here, just that she woke one morning with the urge to come back to Cumbria. And when she arrived, Blackstoke was like a magnet, pulling her in.

There's a gathering of people outside the village hall. The lights are bright and the car park overflowing. The big sign outside declares that there's a fundraiser on for "The Memorial _." Memorial? What's that in aid of?_

And then it crystallises in Joanne's mind. A memorial for what she helped to destroy, for what she organised onto the pyres and into pits. The cattle, the goats, the pigs and the sheep. It would be wrong of her to attend, when she contributed so much to what they're memorialising.

Her eyes pass over the events taking place. A raffle. A cake sale. A visit from Santa Claus earlier in the day which has ended. A photography exhibition. A display model of the planned memorial.

A violin performance by Sherlock Holmes.

Joanne's heart thuds painfully. _Sherlock_. So she's all right then, and she's back from London. And what about Irene? Well, she's probably here too. And Wilcox and Madox and Connolly whom she sat drinking with so many months ago. She tore their worlds apart, and now they're trying to remember what they lost.

She owes it to them to contribute something towards this memorial. It's only right.

Fifteen pounds entry fee for an adult. She has that much anyway.

Parking her car, she checks herself in the mirror. She looks surprisingly put together for someone after driving from Penrith, and Carlisle before that. She re-brushes her hair, and adds just a touch of lipstick. Then she pulls her coat off the passenger seat and folds herself into it as she steps out, locking the car behind her.

It's James Wilcox who meets her at the door, and whom she pays. (It takes a moment for him to recognise her in civilian clothes, but when he does, he smiles, and refuses to take her money, _No need for you to pay in, Captain, you were one of us_ , but she insists and he eventually relents.)

"Didn't expect t'see you back, Captain," he says, handing her back her fiver change. "You're plenty welcome. And you're in luck, too. Things are only startin' up for t'evenin' round. Sherlock will be on in a few minutes, and you'll have plenty of time to look at the photos and drawings after. Go right through and Eddie will find you a good seat."

"Thank you," she replies, and smiles back at him, "but I think I'll just stand at the back."

Wilcox shrugs. "Suit yourself. I hope you enjoy't anyway."

She's not sure if she will or not, so she smiles at him and slips on inside, waving off a young man whom she presumes is Eddie and taking a seat in the very last row. At the front of a hall there's a stage, the curtains drawn across to hide anyone behind it. The room is about three quarters filled, a hubbub of chatting voices buzzing the atmosphere. Waiting for her on the seat is a programme, consisting of a folded sheet. For want of something to do, and not recognising the people she's surrounded by, she searches it for familiar names.

_Violin performance by S. Holmes_. Well yes, she knows that,

_Photographs kindly displayed by I. Adler, M. Wilcox, M. Hudson,_ and a number of others she doesn't recognise. _Auction of selected photographs to be held tomorrow, 22 December._

_Baked goods generously supplied by M. Hudson, M. Wilcox, A. Connolly, T. Madox and several more._

_Memorial designed by J. Madox._

_Model of memorial carved by P. Connolly._

_Fundraiser organised by FMD Memorial Group._

_Many thanks to those involved, those in attendance, and our sponsors._ And underneath that is a list of sponsors, including several B&Bs, pubs, the grocery shop, a veterinary practice, and a host of others.

Joanne is impressed by the community spirit shown. She didn't quite think it would be anything like this.

The place is full now, every seat occupied and some standing along the walls. The lights dim, and out steps a man in front of the curtains across the stage.

She doesn't recognise him, but that doesn't matter. He merely introduces Sherlock Holmes, and her heart thumps painfully at the name. It's well over eight months since that day they kissed in the milking parlour, and her lips still buzz with the memory, strange as it is. In a moment's time she's going to see her again and it's all too much.

She should just leave now, slip out while everyone else is distracted. Nobody even knows she's here except that Wilcox.

He'll tell people, though. He'll notice her missing and look for her. It would be nice to escape, but she has to stay.

The curtains pull back, their red velvet giving way and there she is, Sherlock Holmes, decked out in a black three-piece suit and white shirt, her curls grown shoulder-length and slicked back. In her hands are the violin and bow, and standing in front separating her from the audience is the violin stand.

With a single nod the only fanfare, Sherlock commences to play.

It's Christmas carols first, Joanne realises, the fact settling on her memory belatedly when ‘Silent Night’ gives way to ‘Away in a Manger’. ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’. ‘Oh Holy Night’. ‘King Wenceslas’. And then it shifts, and for a moment Joanne could be back reading novels in her grandfather's house, Paganini playing on the radio.

Of course Sherlock can play Paganini.

She goes through several of his pieces, the bow flashing across the strings, and Sherlock looking as if she is possessed by the Devil himself as she plays, eyes focused on the sheet music though she hardly needs it.

They said that about the Devil with Paganini too. Her grandfather said that they were jealous that they couldn't play as fast and well as him.

Sherlock stops after Paganini, and changes the sheet music. She gives the slightest nod at the front row, then tilts her head back, raises bow to strings and-

The notes that follow are like an icy dagger in Joanne's gut. Chilling, lingering, spreading through her so that she seems to feel them in her chest and the tips of her fingers. She's heard these ones before. But they were not played by carollers or on her grandfather's old records or a stage before a rapt audience. They were played into the wind, on hay bales with hair blown back and smoke billowing in the distance, diggers building a pyre.

These are foot and mouth compositions. And they burn.

* * *

 

It's a standing ovation when Sherlock takes her bow at the end. In the midst of the crowd it would be so easy for Joanne to escape, but instead she finds herself swept along into another room. This one is well lit, with tables along the walls lined with cakes and tea. Against the far wall are two massive display boards, with framed photos hanging on them. And on a table in the centre of the room is a sculpted model - of what Joanne can't make out from her position close to the door. The crowd is such that she can't get as far as the model, so she settles for having a cup of tea for the moment.

"Do you want sugar, dear?" The kindly tea-lady, at a guess in her sixties, asks as she pours the tea into a disposable mug.

"No, thanks." And Joanne offers a smile. "Just milk, please."

The lady adds the milk to the tea. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"No, I'm just -" Just what? Not a tourist. She didn't come to see the sights. She doesn't rightly know why she's here just that it seemed like a good idea at the time. "Just passing through," she finishes lamely.

"Well you're more than welcome, dear. At least you didn't come in the spring, pyres everywhere. It was a disgrace."

"What d'you mean she didn't come in the spring, Martha?" Wilcox's voice booms through the crowd and Joanne's stomach drops. Why did he have to appear and draw attention to her? "Captain Watson was here right along with us! No better woman!"

"Captain -" The lady's hand flies to her mouth. "You're the famous Captain Watson? My dear, you should have said so. I'd hug you if I could get out from behind this table. What you did was beyond belief. You know, Mister Wilcox here was just saying this morning that if it weren't for you and the likes of you we'd be still fighting it around here."

Joanne looks up at Wilcox, who blushes beet red. "I wasn't t'only one singin' her praises, Mrs Hudson. You know Pat was agreein' with every word I said. And Sherlock didn't exactly argue."

"Sherlock's performance was marvellous tonight. Did you see it, Captain? She's been practicing for months. Every time I’ve visited them since they got back from France there’s been music flowing through that house. I worried for a time that she might never play again, not after that. But she’s marvellous, really, and she tries so hard though she pretends not too. Poor girl, she hasn’t had it easy, you know."

Wilcox breaks in, agreeing with her, and with the gathering crowd around the tea tables Joanne makes a quick getaway. In a moment, she finds herself by the sculpture. It's wooden, whittled out of a big block that must have taken some time. The detail gone into it is breathtaking. There's a cow, a sheep, a pig, and a goat. The hair on each stands out strand by strand, the sheep's barbed wool intricately crafted. Even the veins on the cow's udder seem to pop beneath the gaze.

"It's outstanding," she breathes, without realising it, and then there's a laugh from beside her.

"Why thank you, Captain." Patrick Connolly grins at her. "I only finished it yesterday. Would have had it done a lot faster if Joe had given me the design." He nods towards the hanging illustration behind, showing the four animals just as Connolly carved them. "Hopefully, we'll have the money raised by spring to get to work on sculpting the damn thing. We have a man who'll do it out in bronze. Sherlock Holmes put us in touch with him. And we'll position it in the green. Just something nice."

"I'm sure it'll look well."

"You'll have to come back and see it, Captain."

Eventually she manages to noodle away from him and gets as far as the photograph display. Most of them are landscape shots, showing Cumbria in the summer and Cumbria in the snow and Cumbria in the autumn with the trees shifting to gold, and Cumbria in a misty spring, lambs playing around. There are cows grazing and silage cutting, and reeks of hay catching the setting sun. There's one of Joseph Madox smiling with a little girl sitting on his shoulders, and one of Wilcox carrying two young lambs intent on licking his neck. There's a black and white photo of a man with Sherlock Holmes' piercing gaze, holding a rope tied to a cow with a ribbon on her halter and a sash around her neck. He wears her cheekbones and his smile is soft. The photo next to it draws her gaze, and there is Sherlock Holmes herself, lying back against what looks like the same cow but probably isn't. Her eyes are closed, a relaxation deeper than anything Joanne has ever thought to see from her, and she looks for all of the world as if she is perfectly content.

She probably was too.

"Didn't expect to see you here, Joanne," the voice is next to her ear, pitched low beneath the hum of the crowd, and her stomach turns. While she was so busy looking at the Sherlock in the photo, the real Sherlock slipped up beside her. "Didn't expect to see you ever again, in fact."

"Is it such a bad thing that you have?" She keeps her eyes averted, affecting an air of nonchalance.

A chuckle. "I wouldn't say that."

"You played brilliantly tonight." And now she does look at Sherlock, and the other woman smiles, taken aback, her grey eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I do try."

"I heard you composing that in the spring, didn't I? What you played after the Paganini?"

Sherlock's eyes cloud over, just a little, but she nods. "Yes. All except the last piece. That was my grand-aunt's." And now the words come tumbling out. "She played, and my Uncle Ford kept her compositions, and gave them to me when he gave me the violin. I had to sell my own when I lived in London and when I came to live with him..." She trails off. "That's him there. With Valjean." She points at the photo of the man with her eyes. "He always loved Les Misérables. I expect he wouldn't enjoy the musical so much."

The change of topic is welcome. "Have you ever seen it?"

"Irene insisted we go. When we were in London a few months ago." And something in her voice suggests it wasn't entirely against her will. Musicals. Never would she have expected that Sherlock Holmes might be able to enjoy a musical. So many hidden facets, able to creep out now that the crisis is over. It’s…oddly gratifying. "Well there was a song entitled ‘Stars’ so he would have enjoyed that. Ford was always a fan of astronomy. Did his doctorate in it, in fact."

Joanne can't say she expected to hear that. Well, Sherlock's been full of surprises all along. It would be disappointing otherwise. "What brought him to a dairy farm in Cumbria if he had a doctorate in astronomy?"

“Academic bickering wasn’t his thing. He wanted research, but didn’t want the publication of said research and the trouble that entails. He complained that so much of it is down to interpretation, and what side you want to align yourself with, and who you want to make allies of. That never suited him. He always wanted to work alone and do his own thing, but there wasn’t exactly much funding for that. As it happened, his aunt was recently widowed so he moved out here to help with the farm for a while, and just never went back. He kept an attic room for his books and telescopes and fit in astronomy around daily farming life. Amazing man, Uncle Ford.” She swallows, pursing her lips. “Anyway, Captain. Or should I say, ex-Captain? Back to more pressing matters.”

“How do you know I left the army?”

“A desk job wouldn’t suit you. It was all right for a while, until a real crisis arose and you were allowed to help deal with it. But to send you back to desk duty after the foot and mouth? Not exactly the wisest thing. You packed it in and because you couldn’t decide what to do with the rest of your life, you came out here to where your crisis of faith happened. Likely you’ll return to London and work several jobs and apply for colleges when the time comes in order to further your education.”

It’s maddening the way that Sherlock can read her mind. So maddening that she finds herself revealing what she hasn’t told anyone else yet, has hardly been able to bring herself to admit. “I was considering veterinary medicine, actually.”

“That’s a delusion. The expense of it would put you off. Not to mention that you’re not exactly suited for the fine surgical work required when you occasionally experience a tremor in your left arm. No. You’re better off staying out here.”

Clearly some thought has gone into this proposal she's putting forward. "What makes you say that?”

“You need excitement, adrenaline. Cumbria can give you bucket-loads of that. Late nights and early mornings? The rush to get the silage in before the rain? Battling through snow and ice to feed the heifers? Cows kicking the clusters off in the milking parlour? Hard, physical work? Violin performances in the calving shed? Irene taking videos in the back of a pick-up travelling at fifty miles an hour? Cumbria can supply.”

So now they get to the heart of the matter. It's almost amusing, and would be if her eyes were not stinging at the sheer unexpected generosity of it. Here is a woman that she helped to take everything from, offering her a place to live, and work. How can she even begin to deal with that? “You want me to move in with you and Irene? We hardly know each other.”

“Know each other as normal people do? Yes, it’s true that we don’t precisely know each other in that manner. However, you forget the connection forged between people in time of war. What we fought and they’re all calling a crisis, the foot and mouth, that was a war. People refuse to see that. We fought an invisible enemy, whose work was the only means of tracking it. It travelled across the countryside and ensured that when we met we each saw each other at our absolute worst. Steadfast in time of hardship. Dependable. Organised. Meticulous in your work. What more do I need to know about you? And if you get bored, our vet Gregson needs an assistant to travel around with him. There’s all the veterinary medicine you need, without going to the trouble of a degree and not being able to perform surgeries. Instead of sleeping in your car, which is detrimental for your shoulder, by the way, come home with Irene and I and think about it.”

Irene, as if drawn by the mention of her name, appears at their side then. Sherlock smiles at her, then kisses her cheek, murmurs something which Joanne can’t make out thanks to the noise of the crowd, and then departs. Turning, Irene hugs her.

“Lovely to see you again, Joanne,” she says.

“Yes. It is lovely. To see you again, that is.” Christ, she’s making an ass of herself. But she can’t help it. Not when her head is whirring with the forwardness of Sherlock. Inviting her to move in with them? Based on what? A few days acquaintance back in the spring? “Sherlock asked me to move in with you.”

“Ah, yes.” Irene is not surprised, as if she’s been expecting just that. Surely they hadn’t planned this. There is no way that she could have known before tonight that she would come to this fundraiser and they would come across each other. How could they have known such a thing when she didn’t even know herself? “I rather thought she would. Between you and me, I think she gets lonely when I’m away. No harm for her to have some company.”

“I never said that I’d accept.” Though, now that she thinks about it, it’s the best proposition she’s had since leaving the army. And she doesn’t exactly have anywhere else to go, not tonight, at least. She could stay with them, and see how it goes. She need not make a decision for a few days. She can keep travelling to God knows where and mull it over. It’s certainly tempting…

“You will though.” Irene’s eyes twinkle. “Even if it’s just for the music, you will.” Her lips twitch in a suppressed smile. “I hope you’re free in March, by the way.”

_March?_ “Why?”

Irene grins, now, the smile breaking down her defences. It reaches her eyes and they sparkle from under her dark hair. “She’s going to haul both of us off to France to find cows for importing. Muttered something about Switzerland and Denmark as well. Maybe Ireland. Definitely Scotland. She wants to experiment, you see. And having to re-stock, well, it’s as good a chance as any.”

“I still haven’t said yes.” But she’s smiling now, too, like Irene unable to stop it. A bubble of excitement flutters in her stomach, impossible to ignore. Hard work? Long hours? Travel and adventure? What is there not to like?

Irene does not comment on her protests, but her eyes twinkle and that’s almost as bad.


End file.
